ho  COURAGE 


'DOONE 


JAMES 
OLIVER 


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VJ 


p 


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THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 


BOOES  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


The  CouaAGE  or  Captain  Plum     ^ 
The  Honob  or  the  Big  Snows 
The  Gk)iiD  Hunters 
The  Wolf  Huntees 
The  Danger  Tbail 
PhttiTp  Steele 
The  Great  Laebb 
Flowbb  of  the  North 

ISOBEL 

Kazan 

God'b  Countby— and  thb  Womaw;  .. 

The  Hutnted  Woman 

The  Grizzly  King 

Baree»  Son  of  Kazan 


# 


# 


^,    ^ 


Against  that  savage  background  or  mountain  and 
gorge  she  stood  out  clear-cut  as  a  cameo,  slender  as  a 
reed;  wild,  palpitating,  beautiful.  She  was  more  than 
a  picture.     She  was  Life. 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
MARGE  O'DOONE 

BY 
JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 


AUTHOR  OF 

KAZAN,  THE  WOLF  HUNTERS, 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING.  Etc. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
DOUBLEDAT,  PaGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  qf 

translation  into  foreign  langtutges^ 

including  the  Scandinavian 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  . 

.       '    .        •         '     ,  '  ,AT~     '         "        -        ■  "  '• 

r^j^,ci>x:jX!TiYWK  rsEds,  bAnxJEP*  city,  h.  t. 


CXWYRIGUr,  1916,  BY  EVERY  WEEK  CORFORATICVI,  UNDBR  THB  TITLB 
**1HE  GIRL  BEYOND  THE  TRAIL" 


THE  CX)UBAGE  OF  MARGE  ODOONE 


9i2'/yi 


THE  COURAGE  OF 
MARGE  O'DOONE 


CHAPTER  I 

IF  YOU  had  stood  there  in  the  edge  of  the  bleak 
spruce  forest,  with  the  wind  moaning  dismally 
through  the  twisting  trees — ^midnight  of  deep 
Decembei^the  Transcontinental  would  have  looked 
like  a  thing  of  fire;  dull  fire,  glowing  with  a  smouldering 
warmth,  but  of  strange  ghostliness  and  out  of  place.  It 
was  a  weird  shadow,  helpless  and  without  motion,  and 
black  as  the  half-Arctic  night  save  for  the  band  of  il- 
lumination that  cut  it  in  twain  from  the  first  coach  to 
the  last,  with  a  space  like  an  inky  hyphen  where  the 
baggage  car  lay.  Out  of  the  North  came  armies  of  snow- 
laden  clouds  that  scudded  just  above  the  earth,  and  with 
these  clouds  came  now  and  then  a  shrieking  mockery  of 
wind  to  taunt  this  stricken  creation  of  man  and  the  crear 
tures  it  sheltered— men  and  women  who  had  begun  to 
shiver,  and  whose  tense  white  faces  stared  with  increasing 
anxiety  into  the  mysterious  darkness  of  the  night  that 
himg  like  a  sable  curtain  ten  feet  from  the  car  windows. 

For  three  hours  those  faces  had  peered  out  into  the 
night.  Many  of  the  prisouCTS  in  the  snowbound  coaches 
bad  enjoyed  the  experience  somewhat  at  first,  for  there  is 

3 


4        THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

pleasing  anci  iDrdefipahle  tliri?!  to  unexpected  adventure, 
and  this;r  f or  a  bviisf  spell,  had  been  adventure  de  luxe. 
There  had  beeiii  wairmth  and  light,  men's  laughter,  wo- 
men's voices,  and  children's  play.  But  the  loudest  jester 
among  the  men  was  now  silent,  huddled  deep  in  his  great 
coat;  and  the  young  woman  who  had  clapped  her  hands  in 
silly  ecstasy  when  it  was  announced  that  the  train  was 
snowbound  was  weeping  and  shivering  by  timis.  It  was 
cold — so  cold  that  the  snow  which  came  sweeping  and 
swirUng  with  the  wind  was  Hke  granite-dust;  it  clicked, 
clicked,  clicked  against  the  glass — a  bombardment  of  untold 
biUions  of  infinitesimal  projectiles  fighting  to  break  in. 
In  the  edge  of  the  forest  it  was  probably  forty  degrees 
below  zero.  Within  the  coaches  there  still  remained  some 
little  warmth.  The  burning  lamps  radiated  it  and  the 
presence  of  many  people  added  to  it.  But  it  was  cold, 
and  growing  colder.  A  gray  coating  of  congealed  breath 
covered  the  car  windows.  A  few  men  had  given  their 
outer  coats  to  women  and  children.  These  men  looked 
most  frequently  at  their  watches.  The  adventure  de 
luxe  was  becoming  serious. 

For  the  twentieth  time  a  passing  train-man  was  asked 
the  same  question. 

"The  good  Lord  only  knows,"  he  growled  down  into 
the  face  of  the  yoimg  woman  whose  prettiness  would  have 
«nticed  the  most  chivalrous  attention  from  him  earlier 
in  the  evening.  "Engine  and  tender  been  gone  three 
hours  and  the  divisional  point  only  twenty  miles  up  the 
line.  Should  have  been  back  with  help  long  ago.  Hell, 
ain't  it.?" 

The  young  woman  did  not  reply,  but  her  round  mouth 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE         5 

formed  a  quick  and  silent  approbation  of  his  final  re- 
mark. 

"Three  hours!"  the  train-man  continued  his  growling 
as  he  went  on  with  his  lantern.  "That's  the  hell  o'  rail- 
roading it  along  the  edge  of  the  Arctic.  When  you  git 
snowed  in  you're  snowed  in,  an'  there  ain't  no  two  ways 
about  it!" 

He  paused  at  the  smoking  compartment,  thrust  in  his 
head  for  a  moment,  passed  on  and  slammed  the  door  of 
the  car  after  him  as  he  went  into  the  next  coach. 

In  that  smoking  compartment  there  were  two  men, 
facing  each  other  across  the  narrow  space  between  the 
two  seats.  They  had  not  looked  up  when  the  trainman 
thrust  in  his  head.  They  seemed,  as  one  leaned  over 
toward  the  other,  wholly  oblivious  of  the  storm. 

It  was  the  older  man  who  bent  forward.  He  was  about 
fifty.  The  hand  that  rested  for  a  moment  on  David 
Raine's  knee  was  red  and  knotted.  It  was  the  hand  of  a 
man  who  had  lived  his  life  in  strugghng  with  the  wilder- 
ness. And  the  face,  too,  was  of  such  a  man;  a  face 
coloured  and  toughened  by  the  tannin  of  wind  and  bliz- 
zard and  hot  northern  sun,  with  eyes  cobwebbed  about 
by  a  myriad  of  fine  lines  that  spoke  of  years  spent  under 
the  strain  of  those  things.  He  was  not  a  large  man.  He 
was  shorter  than  David  Raine.  There  was  a  slight 
droop  to  his  shoulders.  Yet  about  him  there  was  a 
strength,  a  suppressed  energy  ready  to  act,  a  zestful  eager- 
ness for  life  and  its  daily  mysteries  which  the  other  and 
yoimger  man  did  not  possess.  Throughout  many  thou- 
sands of  square  miles  of  the  great  northern  wilderness  this 
older  man  was  known  as  Father  Roland,  the  Missioner. 


6         THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

His  companion  was  iK)t  more  than  tMrty-eiglit.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  year  or  two  yomiger.  It  may  be  that  the 
waning  of  tJhe  wind  outside,  the  strange  voices  that  were 
in  it  and  the  chilling  gloom  of  their  little  compartment 
made  of  him  a  more  striking  contrast  to  Father  Roland 
than  he  would  have  been  under  other  conditions.  His 
eyes  were  a  clear  and  steady  gray  as  they  met  Father 
Roland's.  They  were  eyes  that  one  could  not  easaly 
forget.  Except  for  his  eyes  he  was  like  a  man  who  had 
been  sick,  and  was  still  sick.  The  Missioner  had  made 
his  own  guess.  And  now,  with  his  hand  on  the  other's 
knee,  he  said: 

"And  you  say — that  you  are  afraid — ^for  this  friend 
of  yours?" 

David  Raine  nodded  his  head.  Lines  deepened  a  Httle 
about  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid."  For  a  moment  he  turned  to  the 
night.  A  fiercer  voUey  of  the  Uttle  snow  demons  beat 
against  the^  window,  as  though  his  pale  face  just  beyond 
their  reach  stirred  them  to  greater  fury.  "I  have  a  most 
disturbing  inclination  to  worry  about  him,"  he  added,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  sUghtly. 

He  faced  Father  Roland  again, 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  losing  himself?"  he  asked. 
"  I  don't  mean  in  the  woods,  or  in  a  desert,  or  by  going  mad. 
I  mean  in  the  other  way — ^heart,  body,  soul;  losing  one's 
grip,  you  might  call  it,  imtil  there  was  no  earth  to  stand 
on.    Did  you?" 

"Yes — mauy  years  ago — I  knew  of  a  man  who  lost 
himself  in  that  way,"  repUed  the  Missioner,  straightening 
in  his  seat.     "But  he  found  himself  again.    And  this 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE         7 

friend  of  yours?  I  am  interested.  This  is  the  first  time 
in  three  years  that  I  have  been  down  to  the  edge  of  civili- 
zation, and  what  yon  have  to  tefl  will  be  different — ^vastly 
different  from  what  I  know.  If  you  are  betraying  nothing 
would  you  mind  telling  me  his  story?" 

"It  is  not  a  pleasant  story,"  warned  the  younger  man, 
**and  on  such  a  night  as  this " 

"It  may  be  that  one  can  see  more  clearly  into  the 
depths  of  misfortune  and  tragedy,"  interrupted  the  Mi»- 
aioner  quietly. 

A  faint  flush  rose  into  David  Raine's  pale  face.  There 
was  something  of  nervous  eagerness  in  the  clasp  of  his 
fingers  upon  his  knees. 

"Of  course,  there  is  the  woman,"  he  said. 

**  Yes — of  com^e — ^the  woman." 

"Sometimes  I  havpn't  been  quite  sure  whether  this  man 
worshipped  the  woman  or  the  woman's  beauty,"  David 
went  on,  with  a  strange  glow  in  his  eyes.  "He  loved 
beauty.  And  this  woman  was  beautiful,  almost  too  beau- 
tiful for  the  good  of  one's  soul,  I  guess.  And  he  must 
have  loved  her,  for  when  she  went  out  of  his  life  it  was  as  if 
he  had  sunk  into  a  black  pit  out  of  which  he  could  never 
rise.  I  have  asked  myself  often  if  he  would  have  loved 
her  if  she  had  been  less  beautiful— even  quite  plain,  and 
I  have  answered  myself  as  he  answered  that  question,  in 
the  aflSrmative.  It  was  bom  in  him  to  worship  wherever 
he  loved  at  all.  Her  beauty  made  a  certain  sort  of  com- 
pleteness for  him.  He  treasured  that.  He  was  proud 
of  it.  He  counted  himself  the  richest  man  in  the  world 
because  he  possessed  it.  But  deep  under  his  worship 
of  her  beauty  he  loved  her,    I  am  more  and  more  sure  of 


8        THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

that,  and  I  am  equally  sure  that  time  will  prove  it — ^that 
he  will  never  rise  again  with  his  old  hope  and  faith  out  of 
that  black  pit  into  which  he  sank  when  he  came  face  to 
face  with  the  realization  that  there  were  forces  in  life — 
in  nature  perhaps,  more  potent  than  his  love  and  his  own 
strong  will." 

Father  Roland  nodded. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  and  he  sank  back  farth^  in 
his  comer  by  the  window,  so  that  his  face  was  shrouded 
a  Httle  in  shadow.  "This  other  man  loved  a  woman,  too. 
And  she  was  beautiful.  He  thought  she  was  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world.  It  is  great  love  that  makes 
beauty." 

"But  this  woman — my  friend's  wife — ^was  so  beautiful 
that  even  the  eyes  of  other  women  were  fascinated  by  her 
I  have  seen  her  when  it  seemed  she  must  have  come  fresh 
from  the  hands  of  angels;  and  at  first,  when  my  friend  was 
the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  he  was  fond  of  telhng  her 
that  it  must  have  been  the  angels  who  put  the  colour  in 
her  face  and  the  wonderful  golden  fires  in  her  shining  hair. 
It  wasn't  his  love  for  her  that  made  her  beautiful.  She 
was  beautiful." 

"And  her  soul?"  softly  questioned  the  shadowed  lips  of 
the  Missioner. 

The  other's  hand  tightened  slowly. 

"In  making  her  the  angels  forgot  a  soul,  I  guess,"  he  said. 

"Then  your  friend  did  not  k)ve  her."  The  Little 
Missioner's  voice  was  quick  and  decisive.  "There  can 
be  no  love  where  there  is  no  soul." 

"That  is  impossible.    He  did  love  her.    I  know  it." 

^I  still  disagree  with  you.     Without  knowing  your 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE         9 

friend,  I  say  that  he  worshipped  her  beauty.  There 
were  others  who  worshipped  that  same  loveHness — others 
who  did  not  possess  her,  and  who  would  have  bartered 
their  souls  for  her  had  they  possessed  souls  to  barter. 
Is  that  not  true?" 

"Yes,  there  were  others.  But  to  understand  you  must 
have  known  my  friend  before  he  sank  down  into  the  pit 
— ^when  he  was  still  a  man.  He  was  a  great  student. 
His  fortune  was  suflScient  to  give  him  both  time  and  means 
for  the  pursuits  he  loved.  He  had  his  great  library,  and 
adjoining  it  a  laboratory.  He  wrote  books  which  few 
people  read  because  they  were  filled  with  facts  and  odd 
theories.  He  beheved  that  the  world  was  very  old,  and 
that  there  was  less  profit  for  men  in  discovering  new 
luxuries  for  an  artificial  civilization  than  in  re-discovering 
a  few  of  the  great  laws  and  miracles  buried  in  the  dust  of 
the  past.  He  believed  that  the  nearer  we  get  to  the 
beginning  of  things,  and  not  the  farther  we  drift,  the 
clearer  comprehension  can  we  have  of  earth  and  sky  and 
God,  and  the  meaning  of  it  all.  He  did  not  consider  it 
an  argument  for  progress  that  Christ  and  His  disciples 
knew  nothing  of  the  telephone,  of  giant  engines  run  by 
steam,  of  electricity,  or  of  instruments  by  which  man 
could  send  messages  for  thousands  of  miles  through  space. 
His  theory  was  that  the  patriarchs  of  old  held  a  closer 
touch  on  the  pulse  of  Life  than  progress  in  its  present 
forms  will  ever  bring  to  us.  He  was  not  a  fanatic.  He 
was  not  a  crank.  He  was  young,  and  filled  with  enthu- 
siasm. He  loved  children.  He  wanted  to  fill  his  home 
with  them.  But  his  wife  knew  that  she  was  too  beau^ 
tiful  for  that — and  they  had  none." 


10       THE  COURAGE  OF  MAUGE  O'DOONE 

He  had  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  liad  pulled  his  hat 
a  trifle  over  his  eyes.  There  was  a  moment's  lull  in  the 
storm,  and  it  was  so  quiet  that  each  could  hear  the  tick- 
ing of  Father  Eoland's  big  silver  watch. 

Then  he  said: 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  all  this.  Father,  imless  it 
is  to  relieve  my  own  mind.  There  can  be  no  hope  that  it 
will  benefit  my  friend.  And  yet  it  cannot  harm  him.  It 
seems  very  near  to  sacrilege  to  put  into  words  what  I 
am  going  to  say  about — ^his  wife.  Perhaps  there  were 
extenuating  conditions  for  her.  I  have  tried  to  convince 
myself  of  that,  just  as  he  tried  to  beheve  it.  It  may  be 
that  a  man  who  is  bom  into  this  age  must  consider  him^ 
self  a  misfit  unless  he  can  tune  himself  in  sympathy  with 
its  manner  of  life.  He  cannot  be  too  critical,  I  guess. 
If  he  is  to  exist  in  a  certain  social  order  of  our  civiUzation 
Unburdened  by  great  doubts  and  deep  glooms  he  must 
not  shiver  when  his  wife  tinkles  her  champagne  glasa 
against  another.  He  must  learn  to  appreciate  the  sinu- 
ous beauties  of  the  cabaret  dancer,  and  must  train  him- 
self to  take  no  offence  when  he  sees  shimmering  wines 
tilted  down  white  throats.  He  must  train  himself  to 
many  things,  just  as  he  trains  himself  to  classical  music 
and  grand  opera.  To  do  these  things  he  must  forget, 
as  much  as  he  can,  the  sweet  melodies  and  the  sweeter 
women  who  are  sinking  into  obUvion  together.  He  must 
accept  life  as  a  Grand  Piano  tuned  by  a  new  sort  of 
Tuning  Master,  and  unless  he  can  dance  to  its  music  he  is 
a  misfit.  That  is  what  my  friend  said  to  extenuate  her. 
She  fitted  into  this  land  of  life  splendidly.  He  was  in 
the  other  groove.     She  loved  fight,  laughter,  wine,  song, 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       11 

and  excitemeat.  He,  the  misfit,  loved  his  books,  his 
work,  and  his  home.  His  greatest  joy  would  have  been 
to  go  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  through  some  wonderful 
cathedral,  pointing  out  its  ancient  glories  and  mysteries 
to  her.  He  wanted  aloneness — just  they  two.  Such 
was  his  idea  of  love.  And  she — ^wanted  other  things. 
You  understand.  Father?  .  .  .  The  thing  grew,  and 
at  last  he  saw  that  she  was  getting  away  from  him.  Her 
passion  for  admiration  and  excitement  became  a  madness. 
I  know,  because  I  saw  it.  My  friend  said  that  it  was 
madness,  even  as  he  was  going  mad.  And  yet  he  did  not 
suspect  her.  If  another  had  told  him  that  she  was  un- 
clean I  am  sure  he  would  have  killed  him.  Slowly  he 
came  to  experience  the  agony  of  knowing  that  the  woman 
wiiom  he  worshippeil  did  not  love  him.  But  this  did  not 
lead  him  to  believe  that  she  could  love  another — or  others. 
Then,  one  day,  he  left  the  city.  She  went  with  him  to 
the  train — ^his  wife.  She  saw  him  go.  She  waved  her 
handkerchief  at  him.  And  as  she  stood  there  she  was — 
glorious." 

Through  partly  closed  eyes  the  Little  Missioner  saw 
his  shoulders  tighten,  and  a  hardness  settle  about  his 
mouth.  The  voice,  too,  was  changed  when  it  went  on. 
It  was  almost  emotionless. 

**It's  sometimes  curious  how  the  Chief  Arbiter  of  things 
plays  His  tricks  on  men — and  women,  isn't  it.  Father? 
There  was  trouble  on  the  line  ahead,  and  my  friend  came 
back.  It  was  unexpected.  It  was  late  when  he  reached 
kome,  and  with  his  night  key  he  went  in  quietly,  because 
he  did  not  want  to  awaken  her.  It  was  very  still  in  the 
house — until  he  came  to  the  door  of  her  room.    There 


12       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

was  a  light.  He  heard  voices — very  low.  He  listened. 
He  went  in." 

There  was  a  terrible  silence.  The  ticking  of  Father 
Roland's  big  silver  watch  seemed  like  the  beating  of  a 
tiny  drum. 

"And  what  happened  then,  David?" 

"My  friend  went  in,"  repeated  David-  His  eyes  sought 
Father  Roland's  squarely,  and  he  saw  the  question  there. 
"No,  he  did  not  kill  them,"  he  said.  "He  doesn't  know 
what  kept  him  from  killing — the  man.  He  was  a  coward, 
that  man.  He  crawled  away  like  a  worm.  Perhaps  that 
was  why  my  friend  spared  him.  The  wonderful  part  of 
it  was  that  the  woman — ^his  wife — was  not  afraid.  She 
stood  up  in  her  ravishing  dishevelment,  with  that  mantle 
of  gold  he  had  worshipped  streaming  about  her  to  her 
knees,  and  she  laughed  ?  Yes,  she  laughed — a  mad  sort 
of  laugh;  a  laughter  of  fear,  perhaps — ^but — laughter. 
So  he  did  not  kill  them.  Her  laughter — the  man's  cow- 
ardice— saved  them.  He  turned.  He  closed  the  door. 
He  left  them.     He  went  out  into  the  night." 

He  paused,  as  though  his  story  was  finished. 

"And  that  is — the  end.^"  asked  Father  Roland  softly. 

"Of  his  dreams,  his  hopes,  his  joy  in  life — ^yes,  that 
was  the  end." 

"But  of  your  friend's  story?  What  happened  after 
that?" 

"A  miracle,  I  think,"  repKed  David  hesitatingly,  as 
though  he  could  not  quite  understand  what  had  happened 
after  that.  "You  see,  this  friend  of  mine  was  not  of  the 
vacillating  and  irresolute  sort.  I  had  always  given  him 
credit  for  that — credit  for  being  a  man  who  would  measure 


TBDE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       IS 

tip  to  a  situation.  He  was  quite  an  athlete,  and  enjoyed 
boxing  and  fwicing  and  swimming.  If  at  any  time  in  his 
life  he  could  have  conceived  of  a  situation  such  as  he 
encountered  in  his  wife's  room,  he  would  have  lived  in  a 
moral  certainty  of  killing  the  man.  And  when  the  situa- 
tion did  come  was  it  not  a  miracle  that  he  should  walk 
out  into  the  night  leaving  them  not  only  unharmed, 
but  together?     I  ask  you.  Father — ^was  it  not  a  miracle?  " 

Father  Roland's  eyes  were  gleaming  strangely  under 
the  ^adow  of  his  broad-brimmed  black  hat.  He  merely 
nodded. 

"Of  course,'*  resumed  David,  "it  may  be  that  he  was 
too  stunned  to  act.  I  believe  that  the  laughter — her 
laughter — acted  upon  him  like  a  powerful  drug.  In- 
stead of  plunging  him  into  the  passion  of  a  murderous 
desire  for  vengeance  it  curiously  enough  anesthetized  his 
emotions.  For  hours  he  heard  that  laughter.  I  be- 
lieve he  will  never  forget  it.  He  wandered  the  streets  all 
that  night.  It  was  in  New  York,  and  of  course  he  passed 
many  people.  But  he  did  not  see  them.  When  morning 
came  he  was  on  Fifth  Avenue  many  miles  from  his  home. 
He  wandered  downtown  in  a  constantly  growing  human 
stream  whose  noise  and  bustle  and  many-keyed  voice 
acted  on  him  as  a  tonic.  For  the  first  time  he  asked  him- 
self what  he  would  do.  Stronger  and  stronger  grew  the 
desire  in  him  to  return,  to  face  again  that  situation  in  his 
home.  I  beheve  that  he  would  have  done  this — I  be- 
lieve that  the  red  blood  in  him  would  have  meted  out  its 
own  punishment  had  he  not  turned  just  in  time,  and  at 
the  right  place.  He  found  himself  in  front  of  The  Little 
Church  Around  the  Comer,  nestling  in  its  hiding-place 


14       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

just  off  the  Avenue.  He  remembered  its  restful  quiet, 
the  coolness  of  its  aisles  and  alcoves.  He  was  exhausted, 
and  he  went  in.  He  sat  down  facing  the  chancel,  and 
as  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  gloom  he  saw  that 
the  broad,  low  dais  in  front  of  the  organ  was  banked  with 
great  masses  of  hydrangeas.  There  had  been  a  wedding, 
probably  the  evening  before.  My  friend  told  me  of  the 
thickening  that  came  in  his  throat,  of  the  strange,  terrible 
throb  in  his  heart  as  he  sat  there  alone — the  only  soul  in 
the  church — and  stared  at  those  hydrangeas.  Hydrangeas 
had  been  their  own  wedding  flower.  Father.  Ani 
then " 

For  the  first  time  there  was  something  like  a  break  m 
the  younger  man's  voice. 

"My  friend  thought  he  was  alone,"  he  went  on.  "But 
some  one  had  come  out  hke  a  shadow  beyond  the  chancel 
raihng,  and  of  a  sudden,  beginning  wonderfully  low  and 
sweet,  the  great  organ  began  to  fill  the  church  with  its 
melody.  The  organist,  too,  thought  he  was  alone.  He 
wa«  a  httle,  old  man,  his  shoulders  thin  and  drooped,  his 
hair  white.  But  in  his  soul  there  must  have  been  a  great 
love  and  a  great  peace.  He  played  something  low  and 
sweet.  When  he  had  finished  he  rose  and  went  away  as 
quietly  as  he  had  come,  and  for  a  long  time  after  that  my 
friend  sat  there — alone.  Something  new  was  born  in 
him,  something  which  I  hope  will  grow  and  comfort  him 
in  the  years  to  come.  When  he  went  out  into  the  city 
again  the  sun  was  shining.  He  did  not  go  home-  He 
did  not  see  the  woman — his  wife — again.  He  has  never 
seen  her  since  that  night  when  she  stood  up  in  her  dis- 
hevelled beauty  and  laughed  at  him.    Even  the  divorce 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE       15 

proceedings  did  not  bring  them  together.  I  believe  that 
he  treated  her  fairly.  Through  his  attorneys  he  turned 
over  to  her  a  half  of  what  he  possessed.  Then  he  went 
away.  That  was  a  year  ago.  In  that  year  I  know  that 
he  has  fought  desperately  to  bring  himself  back  into  his 
old  health  of  mind  and  body,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  he 
has  failed." 

He  paused,  his  story  finished.  He  drew  the  brim  of  his 
hat  lower  over  his  eyes,  and  then  he  rose  to  his  feet.  His 
build  was  slim  and  clean-cut.  He  was  perhaps  five  feet 
ten  inches  in  height,  which  was  four  inches  taller  than 
the  Little  Missioner.  His  shoulders  were  of  good  breadth, 
his  waist  and  hips  of  an  athletic  slimness.  But  his  clothes 
hung  with  a  certain  looseness.  His  hands  were  unnat- 
urally thin,  and  in  his  face  still  hovered  the  shadows  of 
sickness  and  of  mental  suffering. 

Father  Roland  stood  beside  him  now  with  eyes  that 
shone  with  a  deep  understanding.  Under  the  sputteb 
of  the  lamp  above  their  heads  the  two  men  clasped  hands, 
and  the  Little  Missioner's  grip  was  like  the  grip  of  iron. 

"David,  I've  preached  a  strange  code  through  the 
wilderness  for  many  a  long  year,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  vibrant  with  a  strong  emotion.  "I*m  not  Catholic 
and  I'm  not  Church  of  England.  I've  got  no  religion 
that  wears  a  name.  I'm  simply  Father  Roland,  and  all 
these  years  I've  helped  to  bury  the  dead  in  the  forest,  an' 
nurse  the  sick,  an'  marry  the  living,  an'  it  may  be  that 
I've  learned  one  thing  better  than  most  of  you  who  live 
down  in  civilization.  And  that's  how  to  find  yourself 
when  you're  down  an'  out.  Boy,  will  you  come  with 
me?" 


16      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Their  eyes  met.  A  fiercer  gust  of  the  storm  beat 
against  the  windows.  They  could  hear  the  wind  waiKng 
in  the  trees  outside. 

"It  was  your  story  that  you  told  me,"  said  Father 
Roland,  his  voice  barely  above  a  whisp«*.  "She  was 
your  wife,  David?" 

It  was  very  still  for  a  few  moments.  Then  came  the 
reply:     "Yes,  she  was  my  wife.     .     .     ." 

Suddenly  David  freed  his  hand  from  the  Little  Mis- 
sioner's  clasp.  He  had  stopped  something  that  was 
almost  like  a  cry  on  his  lips.  He  pulled  his  hat  still 
lower  over  his  eyes  and  went  through  the  door  out  into 
the  main  part  of  the  coach. 

Father  Roland  did  not  foUow.  Some  of  the  ruddiness 
had  gone  from  his  cheeks,  and  as  he  stood  facing  the  door 
through  wh^ch  David  had  disappeared  a  smouldering  fire 
began  to  burn  far  back  in  his  eyes.  After  a  few  moments 
this  fire  died  out,  and  his  face  was  gray  and  haggard  as 
he  sat  down  again  in  his  comer.  His  hands  unclenched. 
With  a  great  sigh  his  head  drooped  forward  on  his  chest, 
and  for  a  long  time  he  sat  thus,  his  eyes  and  face  lost  in 
shadow.  One  would  not  have  known  that  he  was  breath- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  n 

HALF  a  dozen  times  that  night  David  had  walked 
from  end  to  end  of  the  five  snow-bound  coaches 
that  made  up  the  Transcontinental.  He  believed 
that  for  him  it  was  an  act  of  Providence  that  had  delayed 
the  train.  Otherwise  a  sleeping  car  would  have  been 
picked  up  at  the  next  divisional  point,  and  he  would  not 
have  unburdened  himscH  to  Father  Roland.  They 
would  not  have  sat  up  until  that  late  hour  in  the  smoking 
compartment,  and  this  strange  little  man  of  the  forest 
would  not  have  told  him  the  story  of  a  lonely  cabin  up 
on  the  edge  of  the  Barrens — a  story  of  strange  pathos  and 
human  tragedy  that  had,  in  some  mysterious  way,  unsealed 
his  own  lips.  David  had  kept  to  himself  the  shame  and 
heartbreak  of  his  own  affliction  since  the  day  he  had 
been  compelled  to  tell  it,  coldly  and  without  visible 
emotion,  to  gain  his  own  freedom.  He  had  meant  to 
keep  it  to  himself  always.  And  of  a  sudden  it  had  all 
come  out.  He  was  not  sorry.  He  was  glad.  He  was 
amazed  at  the  change  in  himself.  That  day  had  been  a 
terrible  day  for  him.  He  could  not  get  her  out  of  his 
mind.  Now  a  depressing  hand  seemed  to  have  lifted 
itself  from  his  heart.  He  was  quick  to  understand.  His 
story  had  not  fallen  upon  ears  eager  with  sensual  curiosity. 
He  had  met  a  man^  and  from  the  soul  of  that  man  there 
had  reached  out  to  him  the  spirit  of  a  deep  and  comfort- 

17 


18       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

ing  strength.  He  would  have  revolted  at  compassion, 
and  words  of  pity  would  have  shamed  him.  Father 
Roland  had  given  voice  to  neither  of  these.  But  the 
grip  of  his  hand  had  been  like  the  grip  of  an  iron  man. 

In  the  third  coach  David  sat  down  in  an  empty  seat. 
For  the  first  time  in  many  months  there  was  a  thrill  of 
something  in  his  blood  which  he  could  not  analyze.  What 
had  the  Little  Missioner  meant  when,  with  that  wonderful 
grip  of  his  knotted  hand,  he  had  said,  "IVe  learned  how 
a  man  can  find  himself  when  he's  down  and  out"?  And 
what  had  he  meant  when  he  added,  "WiU  you  come  with 
me"?     Go  with  him?    Where? 

There  came  a  sudden  crash  of  the  storm  against  the 
window,  a  shrieking  blast  of  wind  and  snow,  and  David 
stared  into  the  night.  He  could  see  nothing.  It  was  a 
black  chaos  outside.  But  he  could  hear.  He  could  hear 
the  wailing  and  the  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and 
he  almost  fancied  that  it  was  not  darkness  alone  that  shut 
out  his  vision,  but  the  thick  walls  of  the  forest. 

Was  that  what  Father  Roland  had  meant?  Had  he 
asked  him  to  go  with  him  into  that  ? 

His  face  touched  the  cold  glass.  He  stared  harden 
That  morning  Father  Roland  had  boarded  the  train  at  a 
wilderness  station  and  had  taken  a  seat  beside  him. 
They  had  become  acquainted.  And  later  the  Little 
Missioner  had  told  him  how  those  vast  forests  reached 
without  a  break  for  hundreds  of  miles  into  the  mysterious 
North.  He  loved  them,  even  as  they  lay  cold  and  white 
outside  the  windows.  There  was  gladness  in  his  voice 
when  he  had  said  that  he  was  going  back  into  them. 
They  were  a  part  of  his  world — a.  world  of  "mystery  and 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       19 

savage  glory"  he  had  called  it,  stretching  for  a  thousand 
miles  to  the  edge  of  the  Arctic,  and  fifteen  hundred  miles 
from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  western  mountains.  And 
to-night  he  had  said,  "Will  you  come  with  me?" 

David's  pulse  quickened.  A  thousand  little  snow 
demons  beat  in  his  face  to  challenge  his  courage.  The 
wind  swept  down,  as  if  enraged  at  the  thought  in  his 
mind,  and  scooped  up  volley  after  volley  of  drifting  snow 
and  hurled  them  at  him.  There  was  only  the  thin  glass 
between.  It  was  like  the  defiance  of  a  living  thing.  It 
threatened  him.  It  dared  him.  It  invited  him  out  like 
a  great  bully,  with  a  brawling  show  of  fists.  He  had 
always  been  more  or  less  pusillanimous  in  the  face  of 
winter.  He  dishked  cold.  He  hated  snow.  But  this 
that  beat  and  shrieked  at  him  outside  the  window  had 
set  something  stirring  strangely  within  him.  It  was  a 
desire,  whimsical  and  undecided  at  first,  to  thrust  his 
face  out  into  that  darkness  and  feel  the  sting  of  the  wind 
and  snow.  It  was  Father  Roland's  world.  And  Father 
Roland  had  invited  him  to  enter  it.  That  was  the  curious 
part  of  the  situation,  as  it  was  impressed  upon  him  as  he 
sat  with  his  face  flattened  against  the  window.  The 
Little  Missioner  had  invited  him,  and  the  night  was  daring 
him.  For  a  single  moment  the  incongruity  of  it  all  made 
him  forget  himself,  and  he  laughed — a  chuckling,  half- 
broken,  and  out-of-tune  sort  of  laugh.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  a  year  that  he  had  forgotten  himself  anywhere 
near  to  a  point  resembling  laughter,  and  in  the  sudden 
and  inexplicable  spontaneity  of  it  he  was  startled.  He 
turned  quickly,  as  though  some  one  at  his  side  had  laughed 
and  he  was  about  to  demand  an  explanation.    He  looked 


20      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

across  the  aisle  and  his  eyes  met  squarely  the  eyes  dP  a 
woman. 

He  saw  nothing  but  the  eyes  at  first.  They  were  big, 
dark,  questing  eyes — eyes  that  had  in  them  a  hunting 
look,  as  though  they  hoped  to  find  in  his  face  the  answer 
to  a  great  question.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  seen  eyes  that 
were  so  haunted  by  a  great  unrest,  or  that  held  in  their 
lustrous  depths  the  smouldering  glow  of  a  deej>er  grief. 
Then  the  face  added  itself  to  the  eyes.  It  was  not  a 
young  face.  The  woman  was  past  forty.  But  this  age 
did  not  impress  itself  over  a  strange  and  appealing  beauty 
in  her  countenance  which  was  Uke  the  beauty  of  a  flower 
whose  petals  are  falling.  Before  David  had  seen  more 
than  this  she  turned  her  eyes  from  him  slowly  and  doubt- 
fully, as  if  not  quite  convinced  that  she  had  found  what 
she  sought,  and  faced  the  darkness  beyond  her  own  side 
of  the  car. 

David  was  puzzled,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  still 
deeper  interest.  Her  seat  was  turned  so  that  it  was 
facing  him  across  the  aisle,  three  seats  ahead,  and  he 
could  look  at  her  without  conspicuous  effort  or  rudeness. 
Her  hood  had  slipped  down  and  hung  by  its  long  scarf 
about  her  shoulders.  She  leaned  toward  the  window, 
and  as  she  stared  out,  her  chin  rested  in  the  cup  of  her 
hand.  He  noticed  that  her  hand  was  thin,  and  that 
there  was  a  shadowy  hollow  in  the  white  pallor  of  her 
cheek.  Her  hair  was  heavy  and  done  in  thick  coils  that 
glowed  dully  in  the  lamplight.  It  was  a  deep  brown,  almost 
black,  shot  through  with  little  silvery  threads  of  gray. 

For  a  few  moments  David  withdrew  his  gaze,  sub- 
consciously ashamed  of  the  directness  of  his  scrutiny. 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MAEGE  0'D(X)^nS       21 

But  after  a  little  his  eyes  drifted  back  to  her.  Her  head 
was  sunk  forward  a  little,  he  caught  now  a  pathetic 
droop  of  her  shoulders,  and  he  fancied  that  he  saw  a  httle 
shiver  run  through  her.  Just  as  before  he  had  felt  the 
desire  to  thrust  his  face  out  into  the  night,  he  felt  now  an 
equally  unaccountable  impulse  to  speak  to  her  and  ask 
her  if  he  could  in  any  way  be  of  service  to  her.  But  he 
could  see  no  excuse  for  this  presumptuousness  in  himself. 
If  she  was  in  distress  it  was  not  of  a  physical  sort  for 
which  he  might  have  suggested  his  services  as  a  remedy. 
She  was  neither  hungry  nor  cold,  for  there  was  a  basket 
at  her  side  in  which  he  had  a  gUmpse  of  broken  bits  of 
food;  and  at  her  back,  draped  over  the  seat,  was  a  heavy 
beaver-skin  coat. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  intention  of  returning  to 
the  smoking  compartment  in  which  he  had  left  Father 
Roland.  His  movement  seemed  to  rouse  the  woman. 
Again  her  dark  eyes  met  his  own.  They  looked  straight 
up  at  him  as  he  stood  in  the  aisle,  and  he  stopped.  Her 
lips  trembled. 

"Are  you  .  .  .  acquainted  .  .  .  between  here 
and  Lac  Seul?"  she  asked. 

Her  voice  had  in  it  the  same  haunting  mystery  that  he 
had  seen  in  her  eyes,  the  same  apprehension,  the  same 
hope,  as  though  some  curious  and  indefinable  instinct 
was  telling  her  that  in  this  stranger  she  was  v^y  near 
to  the  thing  which  she  was  seeking. 

"I  am  a  stranger,'*  he  said.  "This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  ever  been  in  this  country." 

She  sank  back,  the  look  of  hope  in  her  face  djing  out 
like  a  passing  fiash. 


gg      THE  COUKAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"I  thank  you,"  she  murmured.  "I  thought  perhaps 
you  might  know  of  a  man  whom  I  am  seeking — a  man  by 
the  name  of  Michael  O'Doone." 

She  did  not  expect  him  to  speak  again.  She  drew  her 
heavy  coat  about  her  and  turned  her  face  toward  the 
window.  There  was  nothing  that  he  could  say,  nothing 
that  he  could  do,  and  he  went  back  to  Father  Roland. 

He  was  in  the  last  coach  when  a  sound  came  to  him 
faintly.  It  was  too  sharp  for  the  wailing  of  the  storm. 
Others  heard  it  and  grew  suddenly  erect,  with  tense  and 
listening  faces.  The  young  woman  with  the  round  mouth 
gave  a  little  gasp.  A  man  pacing  back  and  forth  in  the 
aisle  stopped  as  if  at  the  point  of  a  bayonet. 

It  came  again. 

The  heavy-jowled  man  who  had  taken  the  adventure 
as  a  jest  at  first,  and  who  had  rolled  himself  in  his  great 
coat  like  a  hibernating  woodchuck,  unloosed  his  voice  in  a 
rumble  of  joy. 

"It's  the  whistle!"  he  announced.  "The  damned 
thing's  coming  at  last!" 


CHAPTER  in 

DAVID  came  up  quietly  to  the  door  of  the  smoking 
compartment  where  he  had  left  Father  Roland. 
The  Little  Missioner  was  huddled  in  his  corner 
near  the  window.  His  head  hung  heavily  forward  and 
the  shadows  of  his  black  Stetson  concealed  his  face. 
He  was  apparently  asleep.  His  hands,  with  their  strangely 
developed  joints  and  fingers,  lay  loosely  upon  his  knees. 
For  fully  half  a  minute  David  looked  at  him  without 
moving  or  making  a  sound,  and  as  he  looked,  something 
warm  and  living  seemed  to  reach  out  from  the  lonely 
figure  of  the  wilderness  preacher  that  filled  him  with  a 
strangely  new  feeling  of  companionship.  Again  he  made 
no  effort  to  analyze  the  change  in  himself;  he  accepted  it 
as  one  of  the  two  or  three  inexplicable  phenomena  this 
night  and  the  storm  had  produced  for  him,  and  was 
chiefly  concerned  in  the  fact  that  he  was  no  longer  op- 
pressed by  that  torment  of  aloneness  which  had  been 
a  part  of  his  nights  and  days  for  so  many  months.  He 
was  about  to  speak  when  he  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
disturb  the  other.  So  certain  was  he  that  Father  Roland 
was  asleep  that  he  drew  away  from  the  door  on  the  tips 
of  his  toes  and  reentered  the  coach. 

He  did  not  stop  in  the  first  or  second  car,  though  there 
were  plenty  of  empty  seats  and  people  were  rousing  them- 
selves into  more  cheerful  activity.     He  passed  through 

23 


«4      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

erne  and  then  the  other  to  the  third  coach,  and  sat  down 
when  he  came  to  the  seat  he  had  formerly  occupied.  He 
did  nc*  immediately  look  at  the  woman  across  the  aisle. 
He  did  not  want  her  to  suspect  that  he  had  come  back 
for  that  purpose.  When  his  eyes  did  seek  her  in  a  casual 
sort  of  way  he  was  disappointed. 

She  was  almost  covered  in  her  coat.  He  caught  only 
the  gleam  of  her  thick,  dark  hair,  and  the  shape  of  one 
slim  hand,  white  as  paper  in  the  lampglow.  He  knew 
that  she  was  not  asleep,  for  he  saw  her  shoulders  move, 
and  the  hand  shifted  its  i>osition  to  hold  the  coat  closer 
about  her.  The  whistling  of  the  approaching  engine, 
which  could  be  heard  distinctly  now,  had  no  apparent 
effect  on  her.  For  ten  minutes  he  sat  staring  at  all  he 
could  see  of  her — ^the  dark  glow  of  her  hair  and  the  one 
ghostly  white  hand.  He  moved,  he  shuffled  his  feet,  he 
coughed;  he  made  sure  she  knew  he  was  there,  but  she 
did  not  look  up.  He  was  sorry  that  he  had  not  brought 
Father  Roland  with  him  in  the  first  place,  for  he  was 
certain  that  if  the  Little  Missioner  had  seen  the  grief  and 
the  despair  in  her  eyes — the  hope  almost  burned  out — 
he  would  have  gone  to  her  and  said  things  which  he  had 
found  it  impossible  to  say  when  the  opportunity  had  come 
to  him.  He  rose  again  from  his  seat  as  the  powerful  snow- 
engine  and  its  consort  coupled  on  to  the  train.  The  shock 
almost  flung  him  off  his  feet.  Even  then  she  did  not  raise 
her  head. 

A  second  time  he  returned  to  the  smoking  compartment. 

Father  Roland  was  no  longer  huddled  down  in  his 
corner.  He  was  on  his  feet,  his  hands  thrust  deep  down 
into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  he  was  whistling  softly  as 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       25 

David  came  in.  His  hat  lay  on  the  seat.  It  was  the 
first  time  David  had  seen  his  round,  rugged,  weather- 
reddened  face  without  the  big  Stetson.  He  looked  younger 
and  yet  older;  his  face,  as  David  saw  it  there  in  the  lamp- 
glow,  had  something  in  the  ruddy  glow  and  deeply  lined 
strength  of  it  that  was  almost  youthful.  But  his  thick, 
shaggy  hair  was  very  gray.  The  train  had  begun  to  move. 
He  tiu*ned  to  the  window  for  a  moment,  and  then  looked 
at  David. 

"We  are  under  way,'*  he  said.  "Very  soon  I  will  be 
getting  off." 

David  sat  down. 

"It  is  some  distance  beyond  the  divisional  point  aliead 
—this  cabin  where  you  get  off?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles.  There  is  nothing 
but  a  cabin  and  two  or  three  log  outbuildings  there — 
where  Thoreau,  the  Frenchman,  has  his  fox  pens,  as  I 
told  you.  It  is  not  a  regular  stop,  but  the  train  will  slow 
down  to  throw  off  my  dunnage  and  give  me  an  easy  jump. 
My  dogs  and  Indian  are  with  Thoreau." 

"And  from  there — ^from  Thoreau's — ^it  is  a  long  distance 
to  the  place  you  call  home?" 

The  Little  Missioner  rubbed  his  hands  in  a  queer  rasping 
way.  The  movement  of  those  rugged  hands  and  the 
curious,  chuckling  laugh  that  accompanied  it,  radiated  a 
sort  of  cheer.  They  were  expressions  of  more  than  satis- 
faction. "It's  a  great  many  miles  to  my  own  cabin,  but 
it's  home — aE  home — after  I  get  into  the  forests.  My 
cabin  is  at  the  lower  end  of  Grod's  Lake,  three  hundred 
miles  by  dogs  and  sledge  from  Thoreau's — three  hundred 
miles  as  straight  north  as  a  niskuk  flies." 


26       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"A  nishuJc  f "  said  David. 

"  Yes — ^a  gray  goose." 

"Don't  you  have  crows?" 

"A  few;  but  they're  as  crooked  in  flight  as  they  are  in 
morals.  They're  scavengers,  and  they  hang  down  pretty 
close  to  the  line  of  rail — close  to  civilization,  where  there's 
a  lot  of  scavenging  to  be  done,  you  know." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  David  found  a  laugh  on 
his  lips. 

"Then — ^you  don't  like  civiKzation?" 

"My  heart  is  in  the  Northland,"  replied  Father  Roland, 
and  David  saw  a  sudden  change  in  the  other's  face,  a 
dying  out  of  the  light  in  his  eyes,  a  tenseness  that  came 
and  went  like  a  flash  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  In 
that  same  moment  he  saw  the  Missioner's  hand  tighten, 
and  the  fingers  knot  themselves  curiously  and  then  slowly 
relax. 

One  of  these  hands  dropped  on  David's  shoulder,  and 
Father  Roland  became  the  questioner. 

"You  have  been  thinking,  since  you  left  me  a  little 
while  ago?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     I  came  back.     But  you  were  asleep." 

"I  haven't  been  asleep.  I  have  been  awake  every 
minute.  I  thought  once  that  I  heard  a  movement  at 
the  door  but  when  I  looked  up  there  was  no  one  there. 
You  told  me  to-day  that  you  were  going  west — ^to  the 
British  Columbia  mountains?" 

David  nodded.     Father  Roland  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  tell  me  why  you  were  going," 
he  went  on.  "I  have  made  my  own  guess  since  you  told 
me  about  the  woman,  David.    Probably  you  will  never 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      2? 

know  just  why  your  story  has  struck  so  deeply  home  with 
me  and  why  it  seemed  to  make  you  more  a  son  to  me 
than  a  stranger.  I  have  guessed  that  in  going  west 
you  are  simply  wandering.  You  are  fighting  in  a  vain 
and  foolish  sort  of  way  to  run  away  from  something. 
Isn't  that  it?  You  are  running  away — trying  to  escape 
the  one  thing  in  the  whole  wide  world  that  you  cannot 
lose  by  flight — ^and  that's  memory.  You  can  think  just 
as  hard  in  Japan  or  the  South  Sea  Islands  as  you  can  on 
Fifth  Avenue  in  New  York,  and  sometimes  the  farther 
away  you  get  the  more  maddening  your  thoughts  be- 
come. It  isn't  travel  you  want,  David.  It's  blood — red 
blood.  And  for  putting  blood  into  you,  and  courage,  and 
joy  of  just  living  and  breathing,  there's  nothing  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  like — that  I " 

He  reached  an  arm  past  David  and  pointed  to  the  night 
beyond  the  car  window. 

"You  mean  the  storm,  and  the  snow " 

"Yes;  storm,  and  snow,  and  sunshine,  and  forests— 
the  tens  of  thousands  of  miles  of  our  Northland  that 
you've  seen  only  the  edges  of.  That's  what  I  mean* 
But,  first  of  all" — and  again  the  Little  Missioner  rubbed 
his  hands — "first  of  all,  I'm  thinking  of  the  supper  that's 
waiting  for  us  at  Thoreau's.  Will  you  get  off  and  hav^ 
supper  with  me  at  the  Frenchman's,  David?  After  that, 
if  you  decide  not  to  go  up  to  God's  Lake  with  me,  Thoreau 
can  bring  you  and  your  luggage  back  to  the  station  with 
his  dog  team.  Such  a  supper — or  breakfast — it  will  bet 
I  can  smell  it  now,  for  I  know  Thoreau — ^his  fish,  his 
birds,  the  tenderest  steaks  in  the  forests!  I  can  hear 
Thoreau  cursing  because  the  train  hasn't  come,  and  I'M 


«8       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

wager  ke's  got  fish  and  caribou  tenderloin  and  partridges 
just  ready  for  a  final  turn  in  the  roaster.  What  do  you 
say?    Will  you  get  o!ff  with  me?" 

"It  is  a  tempting  offer  to  a  hungry  man.  Father." 

The  Little  Missioner  chuckled  elatedly. 

"Hunger! — that's  the  real  medicine  of  the  gods,  David, 
when  the  belt  isn't  drawn  too  tight.  K  I  want  to  know 
the  nature  and  quahty  of  a  man  I  ask  about  his  stomach. 
Did  you  ever  know  a  man  who  loved  to  eat  who  wasn't 
of  a  pretty  decent  sort?  Did  you  ever  know  of  a  man 
who  loved  pie — ^who'd  go  out  of  his  way  to  get  pie — ^that 
didn't  have  a  heart  in  him  bigger  than  a  pumpkin?  I 
guess  you  didn't.  If  a  man's  got  a  good  stomach  he  isn't 
a  grouch,  and  he  won't  stick  a  knife  into  your  back;  but 
if  he  eats  from  habit — or  necessity — ^he  isn't  a  beautiful 
character  in  the  eyes  of  nature,  and  there's  pretty  sure 
to  be  a  cog  loose  somewhere  in  his  makeup.  I'm  a  grub- 
scientist,  David.  I  warn  you  of  that  before  we  get  off 
at  Thoreau's.  I  love  to  eat,  and  the  Frenchman  knows  it. 
That's  why  I  can  smell  things  in  that  cabin,  forty  miles 
away." 

He  was,.rubbing  his  hands  briskly  and  his  face  radiated 
such  joyous  anticipation  as  he  talked  that  David  uncon- 
sciously felt  the  spirit  of  his  enthusiasm.  He  had  gripped 
one  of  Father  Roland's  hands  and  was  pumping  it  up  and 
down  almost  before  he  realized  what  he  was  doing. 

"I'll  get  off  with  you  at  Thoreau's,"  he  exclaimed, 
"and  later,  if  I  feel  as  I  do  now,  and  you  still  want  my 
company,  I'll  go  on  with  you  into  the  north  country!" 

A  slight  flush  rose  into  his  thin  cheeks  and  his  eyes 
shone   with   a   freshly   lighted   enthusiasm.    As   Father 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O  DOONE   29 

Roland  saw  the  change  in  him  his  hands  Closed  over 
Oavid's. 

"I  knew  you  had  a  splendid  stomach  in  you  from  the 
moment  you  finished  telling  me  about  the  woman,"  he 
cried  exultantly.  "I  knew  it,  David.  And  I  do  want 
your  company — I  want  it  as  I  never  wanted  the  company 
of  another  man!" 

"That  is  the  strange  part  of  it,"  replied  David,  a  slight 
quiver  in  his  voice.  He  drew  away  his  hands  suddenly 
and  with  a  jerk  brought  himself  to  his  feet.  "Good  God! 
look  at  me!"  he  cried.  "I  am  a  wreck,  physically.  It 
would  be  a  he  if  you  told  me  I  am  not.  See  these  hands — 
these  arms!  I'm  down  and  out.  I'm  weak  as  a  dog, 
and  the  stomach  yo»  speak  of  is  a  myth.  I  haven't 
eaten  a  square  meal  in  a  year.  Why  do  you  want  me  as 
a  comjmnion.?  Why  do  you  think  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
for  you  to  drag  a  decrepit  misfit  Uke  myself  up  into  a 
country  like  yours.'*  Is  it  because  of  your — ^your  code 
of  faith?  Is  it  because  you  think  you  may  save  a 
soul?" 

He  was  breathing  deeply.  As  he  excoriated  himself 
and  bared  his  weakness  the  hot  blood  crept  slowly  into 
his  face. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  go?"  he  demanded.  "Why 
don't  you  ask  some  man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins  and 
a  heart  that  hasn't  been  burned  out?  Why  have  you 
asked  me?" 

Father  Roland  made  as  if  to  speak,  and  then  caught 
himself.  Again  for  a  passing  flash  there  came  that  mys- 
terious change  in  him,  a  sudden  dying  out  of  the  enthu- 
siasm in  his  eyes,  and  a  grayness  in  his  face  that  came 


^ 


30      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

and  went  like  a  shadow  of  pain.  In  another  moment  he 
was  saying: 

"I'm  not  playing  the  part  of  the  good  Samaritan,  David. 
I've  got  a  personal  and  a  selfish  reason  for  wanting  you 
with  me.  It  may  be  possible — ^just  possible,  I  say — 
that  I  need  you  even  more  than  you  will  need  me."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "Let  me  have  your  checks  and  I'll 
go  ahead  to  the  baggage  car  and  arrange  to  have  your 
dunnage  thrown  off  with  mine  at  the  Frenchman's." 

David  gave  him  the  checks,  and  sat  down  after  he  had 
gone.  He  began  to  realize  that,  forsthe  first  time  in  many 
months,  he  was  taking  a  deep  and  growing  interest  in 
matters  outside  his  own  life.  The  night  and  its  happen- 
ings had  kindled  a  strange  fire  within  him,  and  the  warmth 
of  this  fire  ran  through  his  veins  and  set  his  body  and  his 
brain  tingling  curiously.  New  forces  were  beginning  to 
fight  his  own  malady.  As  he  sat  alone  after  Father 
Roland  had  gone,  his  mind  had  dragged  itself  away  fron^ 
the  East;  he  thought  of  a  woman,  but  it  was  the  womaij 
in  the  third  coach  back.  Her  wonderful  eyes  haunted  hinj 
— their  questing  despair,  the  strange  pain  that  seemed  to 
bum  like  glowing  coals  in  their  depths.  He  had  seen  not 
only  misery  and  hopelessness  in  them;  he  had  seen  tragedy; 
and  they  troubled  him.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  tell 
Father  Roland  about  her  when  he  returned  from  the 
baggage  car,  and  take  him  to  her. 

And  who  was  Father  Roland.?  For  the  first  time  he 
asked  himself  the  question.  There  was  something  of 
mystery  about  the  Little  Missioner  that  he  found  as 
strange  and  unanswerable  as  the  thing  he  had  seen  in 
the  eyes  of  the  woman  in  the  third  car  back.     Father 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       31 

Roland  had  not  been  asleep  when  he  looked  in  and  saw 
him  hunched  down  in  his  corner  near  the  window,  just  as 
a  httle  later  he  had  seen  the  woman  crumpled  down  in 
hers.  It  was  as  if  the  same  oppressing  hand  had  been 
upon  them  in  those  moments.  And  why  had  Father 
Roland  asked  him  of  all  men  to  go  with  him  as  a  comrade 
into  the  North.'*  Following  this  he  asked  himself  the  still 
more  puzzUng  question;  Why  had  he  accepted  the  in- 
vitation? 

He  stared  out  into  the  night,  as  if  that  night  held  an 
answer  for  him.  He  had  not  noticed  imtil  now  that  the 
storm  had  ceased  its  beating  against  the  window.  It  was 
not  so  black  outside.  With  his  face  close  to  the  glass  he 
could  make  out  the  dark  wall  of  the  forest.  From  the 
rumble  of  the  trucks  under  him  he  knew  that  the  two 
engines  were  making  good  time.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  a  quarter  of  twelve.  They  had  been  travelHng 
for  half  an  hour  and  he  figured  that  the  divisional  point 
ahead  would  be  reached  by  midnight.  It  seemed  a  very 
short  time  after  that  when  he  heard  the  tiny  bell  in 
his  watch  tinkle  off  the  hour  of  twelve.  The  last  strokes 
were  drowned  in  a  shrill  blast  of  the  engine  whistle,  and  a 
moment  later  he  caught  the  dull  glow  of  lights  in  the 
hollow  of  a  wide  curve  the  train  was  making. 

Father  Roland  had  told  him  the  train  would  wait  at 
this  point  fifteen  minutes,  and  even  now  he  heard  the 
clanging  of  handbells  announcing  the  fact  that  hot  coffee, 
sandwiches,  and  ready-prepared  suppers  were  awaiting 
the  half-starved  passengers.  The  trucks  grated  harshly, 
the  whirring  groan  of  the  air-brakes  ran  under  him  like 
a  great  sigh,  and  suddenly  he  was  looking  down  into  the 


82      THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  CDOONE 

face  of  a  pop-eyed  man  who  was  clanging  a  bell,  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  right  arm,  under  his  window,  and  who, 
with  this  labour,  was  emitting  a  husky  din  of  "Supper 
— ^supper  'ot  an*  ready  at  the  Royal "  in  his  vain  effort  to 
drown  the  competition  of  a  still  more  raucous  voice  that 
was  bellowing:  "  'Ot  steaks  an'  liver'n  onions  at  the  Queen 
Alexandry!"  As  David  made  no  mov«»ent  the  man 
under  his  window  stretched  up  his  neck  and  yelled  a 
personal  invitation.  "W'y  don't  you  come  out  and  eat, 
old  chap?  You've  got  fifteen  minutes  an'  mebby  'arf 
an  'our;  supper — supper  'ot  an'  ready  at  the  Royal!" 
Up  and  down  the  length  of  the  dimly  Hghted  platform 
David  heard  that  clangor  of  bells,  and  as  if  determined  to 
capture  his  stomach  or  die,  the  pop-eyed  nmn  never 
moved  an  indi  from  his  window,  while  behind  him  there 
jostled  and  hurried  an  eager  and  steadily  growing  crowd 
of  hungry  people. 

David  thought  again  of  the  woman  in  the  third  coach 
back.  Was  she  getting  off  h«-e,  he  woiidered?  He  went 
to  the  door  of  the  smoking  compartment  and  waited 
another  half  minute  for  Father  Roland.  It  was  quite 
€vi<fent  that  his  delay  was  occasioned  by  some  difficulty 
in  the  baggage  car,  a  difficulty  which  perhaps  his  own 
presence  might  hdp  to  straighten  out.  He  hesitated 
between  the  thought  of  joining  the  Missioner  and  the 
stronger  impulse  to  go  back  into  the  third  ooach.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  feeling  of  embarrassment  as 
he  returned  for  the  third  t  me  to  look  at  her.  He  was  not 
anxious  for  her  to  see  him  again  unless  Father  Roland  was 
with  him.  His  hesitancy,  if  it  was  not  altogether  em- 
barrassment, was  caused  by  the  fear  that  she  might  quite 


THE  CX)URAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      33 

naturally  regard  Ids  interest  in  a  wrong  light.  He  was 
especially  sensitive  upon  that  point,  and  had  always 
been.  The  fact  that  she  was  not  a  young  woman,  and 
that  he  had  seen  her  dark  hair  finely  threaded  with  gray, 
made  no  difference  with  him  in  his  peculiarly  chivalrio 
conception  of  man's  attitude  toward  woman.  He  did 
not  mean  to  impress  himself  upon  her;  this  time  he  merdiy 
wanted  to  see  whether  she  had  roused  herself,  or  had  left 
the  car.  At  least  this  was  the  trend  of  his  mental  argu* 
ment  as  he  entered  the  third  coach. 

The  car  was  empty.  The  woman  was  gone.  Even 
the  old  man  who  had  hobbled  in  on  crutches  at  the  last 
station  had  hobbled  out  again  in  response  to  the  clanging 
bells.  When  he  came  to  the  seat  where  the  woman  had 
been,  David  paused,  and  would  have  turned  back  had 
he  not  chanced  to  look  out  through  the  window.  He 
was  just  in  time  to  catch  the  quick  upturn  of  a  passing 
face.  It  was  her  face.  She  saw  him  and  recognized 
him;  she  seemed  for  a  moment  to  hesitate;  her  eyes  were 
filled  again  with  that  haunting  fire;  h^  lips  trembled 
as  if  about  to  speak;  and  then,  like  a  mysterious  shadow, 
she  drifted  out  of  his  vision  into  darkness. 

For  a  space  he  r«nained  in  his  bent  and  staring  atti- 
tude, trying  to  pierce  the  gloom  into  which  she  had  dis- 
appeared. As  he  drew  back  from  the  window,  wondering 
what  she  must  think  of  him,  his  eyes  feU  to  the  seat 
where  she  had  beem  sitting,  and  he  saw  that  she  had 
left  something  behind. 

It  was  a  very  thin  package,  done  up  in  a  bit  of  news- 
paper and  tied  with  a  red  string.  He  picked  it  up  and 
turned  it  over  in  his  hands.     It  was  five  or  six  inches  in 


34      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

width  and  perhaps  eight  in  length,  and  was  not  more  than 
half  an  inch  in  thickness.  The  newspaper  in  which  the 
object  was  wrapped  was  worn  until  the  print  was  almost 
obliterated. 

Again  he  looked  out  through  the  window.  Was  it  a 
trick  of  his  eyes,  he  wondered,  or  did  he  see  once  more 
that  pale  and  haunting  face  in  the  gloom  just  beyond  the 
lampglow?  His  fingers  closed  a  little  tighter  upon  the 
thin  packet  in  his  hand.  At  least  he  had  found  an  ex- 
cuse; if  she  was  still  there — ^if  he  could  find  her — he  had 
an  adequate  apology  for  going  to  her.  She  had  forgotten 
something;  it  was  simply  a  matter  of  courtesy  on  his  part 
to  return  it.  As  he  aHghted  into  the  half  foot  of  snow  on 
the  platform  he  could  have  given  no  other  reason  for  his 
action.  His  mind  could  not  clarify  itself;  it  had  no  co- 
hesiveness  of  purpose  or  of  emotion  at  this  particular 
juncture.  It  was  as  if  a  strange  and  magnetic  undertow 
were  drawing  him  after  her.  And  he  obeyed  the  impulse. 
He  began  seeking  for  her,  with  the  thin  packet  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DAVID  followed  where  he  fancied  he  had  last  seen 
the  woman's  face  and  caught  himself  just  in  time 
to  keep  from  pitching  over  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form. Beyond  that  there  was  a  pit  of  blackness.  Surely 
she  had  not  gone  there. 

Two  or  three  of  the  bells  were  still  clanging,  but  with 
abated  enthusiasm;  from  the  dimly  lighted  platform, 
grayish-white  in  the  ghostly  flicker  of  the  oil  lamps,  the 
crowd  of  hungry  passengers  was  ebbing  swiftly  in  its 
quest  of  food  and  drink;  a  Jast  haK-hearted  bawUng  of 
the  virtue  to  be  found  in  the  "hot  steak  arC  Hver'n  onions 
at  the  Royal  Alexandry"  gave  way  to  a  comforting  silence 
— a  silence  broken  only  by  a  growing  clatter  of  dishes, 
the  subdued  wheezing  of  the  engines,  and  the  raucous 
voice  of  a  train-man  telling  the  baggage-man  that  the 
hump  between  his  shoulders  was  not  a  head  but  a  knot 
kindly  tied  there  by  his  Creator  to  keep  him  from  un- 
ravelling. Even  the  promise  of  a  fight — at  least  of  a 
blow  or  two  deUvered  in  the  gray  gloom  of  the  baggage- 
man's door — did  not  turn  David  from  his  quest.  When 
he  returned,  a  few  minutes  later,  two  or  three  sympathetic 
friends  were  nursing  the  baggage-man  back  into  conscious- 
ness. He  was  about  to  pass  the  group  when  some  one 
gripped  his  arm,  and  a  familiar  and  joyous  chuckle 
sounded  in  his  ear.    Father  Roland  stood  beside  him. 


36      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Dear  Father  in  Heaven,  but  it  was  a  terrible  blow, 
David!"  cried  the  Little  Missioner,  his  fiice  drtncing  in 
the  flare  of  the  baggage-room  lamps.  "It  was  a  tTeinen- 
dous  blow — straight  out  from  his  shoulders  hke  a  battering 
ram,  and  hard  as  rock !  It  put  him  to  sleep  like  a  baby. 
Did  you  see  it?" 

"I  didn't,"  said  David,  staring  at  the  other  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"He  deserved  it,"  explained  Father  Roland.  "I  love 
CO  see  a  good,  clean  blow  when  it's  delivered  in  the  right, 
David.  I've  seen  the  time  when  a  hard  fist  was  worth 
more  than  a  preacher  and  his  prayers."  He  was  chuckling 
delightedly  as  they  turned  back  to  the  train.  "The 
baggage  is  arranged  for,"  he  added.  "They'll  put  us  off 
together  at  the  Frenchman's." 

David  had  slipped  the  thin  packet  into  his  pocket. 
He  no  longer  felt  so  keenly  the  desire  to  tell  Father  Roland 
about  the  woman — at  least  not  at  the  present  time.  His 
quest  had  been  futile.  The  woman  had  disappeared  as 
completely  as  though  she  had  actually  floated  away  into 
that  pit  of  darkness  beyond  the  far  end  of  the  platform. 
He  had  drawn  but  one  conclusion.  This  place — Graham 
— was  her  home;  undoubtedly  friends  had  been  at  the 
station  to  meet  her;  even  now  she  might  be  telling  them, 
or  a  husband,  or  a  grown-up  son,  of  the  strange  fellow 
who  bad  stared  at  her  in  such  a  curious  fashion.  Disap'^ 
pointment  in  not  finding  her  had  brought  a  reaction.  He 
had  an  inward  and  uncomfortable  feeling  of  having  been 
very  siUy,  and  of  having  allowed  his  imagination  to  get 
the  better  of  his  common  sense.  He  had  persuaded 
himself  to  believe  that  she  had  been  in  very  great  dis- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       37 

tress.  He  had  acted  honestly  and  with  chivalric  intentions. 
And  yet,  after  what  had  passed  between  him  and  Father 
Roland  in  the  smoking  compartment — and  in  view  of  his 
failure  to  establish  a  proof  of  his  own  convictions — ^he  was 
determined  to  keep  this  particular  event  of  the  night  to 
himself. 

A  loud  voice  began  to  announce  that  the  moment  of 
departure  had  arrived,  and  fts  the  passengers  began 
scrambling  back  into  their  coaches.  Father  Roland  led  the 
way  to  the  baggage  oar. 

"They're  going  to  let  us  ride  with  the  dunnage  so  there 
won't  be  any  mistake  or  time  lost  when  we  get  to  Tho- 
reau's,"  he  said. 

They  climbed  up  into  the  warm  and  lighted  car,  and 
after  the  baggage-man  in  charge  had  given  them  a  sour 
nod  of  recognition  the  first  thing  that  David  noticed  was 
his  own  and  Faliier  Roland's  property  stacked  up  near 
the  door.  His  own  belongings  were  a  steamer  trunk  and 
two  black  morocco  bags,  while  Father  Roland's  share  of 
the  pile  consisted  mostly  of  boxes  and  bulging  gunny  sacks 
that  must  have  weighed  close  to  half  a  ton.  Near  the  pile 
was  a  pwur  of  scales,  shoved  back  against  the  wall  of  the 
car.  David  laughed  queerly  as  he  nodded  toward  them. 
They  gave  him  a  rather  satisfying  inspiration.  With 
them  he  could  prove  the  incongruity  of  the  partnership 
that  had  already  begun  to  exist  between  him  and  the 
Missioner.  He  weighed  himself,  with  Father  Roland 
looking  on.     The  scales  balanced  at  132. 

"And  I'm  five  feet  nine  in  height,"  he  said,  disgustedly; 
"it  should  be  160.     You  see  where  I'm  at ! " 

"I  knew  a  200-pound  pig  once  that  worried  himself 


S8      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

down  to  ninety  because  the  man  who  kept  him  also  kept 
skunks,"  repHed  Father  Roland,  with  his  odd  chuckle. 
"Next  to  small-pox  and  a  bullet  through  your  heart,  worry 
is  about  the  blackest,  man-killingest  thing  on  earth,  David. 
See  that  bag?  " 

He  pointed  to  one  of  the  bulging  gunny  sacks. 

"That's  the  antidote,"  he  said.  "It's  the  best  medicine 
I  know  of  in  the  grub  line  for  a  man  who's  lost  his  grip. 
There's  the  making  of  three  men  in  that  sack." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  David,  cm-iously. 

The  Missioner  bent  over  to  examine  a  card  attached  to 
the  neck  of  the  bag. 

"To  be  perfectly  accurate  it  contains  110  pounds  of 
beans,"  he  answered. 

"Beans!     Great  Heavens!    I  loathe  them!" 

"So  do  most  down-and-outs,"  affirmed  Father  Roland, 
cheerfully.  "That's  one  reason  for  the  peculiar  psycho- 
logical value  of  beans.  They  begin  to  tell  you  when  you're 
getting  weaned  away  from  a  lobster  palate  and  a  stuffed- 
crab  stomach,  and  when  you  get  to  the  point  where  you 
want  'em  on  your  regular  bill  of  fare  you'll  find  more  fun 
in  chopping  down  a  tree  than  in  going  to  a  grand  opera. 
But  the  beans  must  be  cooked  right,  David — browned  like 
a  nut,  juicy  to  the  heart  of  'em,  and  seasoned  alongside  a 
broihng  duck  or  partridge,  or  a  tender  rabbit.     Ah!" 

The  Little  Missioner  rubbed  his  hands  ecstatically. 

David's  rejoinder,  if  one  was  on  his  lips,  was  interrupted 
by  a  violent  cursing.  The  train  was  well  under  way,  and 
the  baggage-man  had  sat  down  to  a  small  table  with  his 
back  toward  them.  He  had  leaped  to  his  feet  now,  his 
face  furious,  and  with  another  demoniac  curse  he  gave  the 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      39 

coal  skuttle  a  kick  that  sent  it  with  a  bang  to  the  far  end 
of  the  car.     The  table  was  littered  with  playing  cards. 

"Damn  'em — they  beat  me  this  time  in  ten  plays!" 
he  yelled.  "They've  got  the  devil  in  'em!  If  they  was 
aUve  I'd  jump  on  'em!  I've  played  this  game  of  soUtaire 
for  nineteen  years — I've  played  a  million  games — an' 
damned  if  I  ever  got  beat  in  my  life  as  it's  beat  me  since 
we  left  Halifax!" 

"Dear  Heaven!"  gasped  Father  Roland.  "Have  you 
.been  playing  all  the  way  from  Halifax.^* " 

The  solitaire  fiend  seemed  not  to  hear,  and  resuming  his 
seat  with  a  low  and  ominous  muttering,  he  dealt  himself 
another  hand.  In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  on  his  feet 
again,  shaking  the  cards  angrily  under  the  little  Mis- 
sicmer's  nose  as  though  that  individual  were  entirely  ac- 
countable for  his  bad  luck. 

"Look  at  that  accursed  trey  of  hearts!"  he  demanded. 
"First  card,  ain't  it?  First  card! — an'  if  it  had  been  the 
third,  'r  the  sixth,  'r  the  ninth,  'r  anything  except  that 
confounded  Number  One,  I'd  have  slipped  the  game  up 
my  sleeve.  Am't  it  enough  to  wreck  any  honest  man's 
soul?    I  ask  you — ^ain't  it?'* 

"Why  don't  you  change  the  trey  of  hearts  to  the  place 
that  suits  you?"  asked  David,  innocently.  "It  seems  to 
me  it  would  be  very  easy  to  move  it  to  third  place  in  the 
deck  if  you  want  it  th«*e." 

The  baggage-meui's  bulging  eyes  seemed  ready  to  pop 
as  he  stared  at  David,  and  when  he  saw  that  David  really 
meant  what  he  had  said  a  look  of  xmutterable  disgust 
spread  over  his  countenance.  Then  he  grinned — a  sickly 
and  malicious  sort  of  grin. 


40      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Say,  mister,  youVe  never  played  solitaire,  have  you?" 
he  asked. 

"Never,"  confessed  David. 

Without  another  word  the  baggage-man  hmiched  him- 
self over  his  table,  dealt  himself  another  hand,  and  not 
until  the  train  began  lowing  up  for  Thoreau's  pkce  did 
he  rise  from  his  seat  or  cease  his  low  mutterings  and 
grumblings.  In  respoi^e  to  the  engineer's  whistle  he 
jumj>ed  to  his  feet  and  rc^ed  back  the  car  door. 

"Now  step  lively!*'  he  demanded.  "We've  got  no 
orders  to  stop  here  and  we'll  have  to  dump  this  stuff  out 
on  the  move!" 

As  he  spoke  he  gave  the  hundred  and  ten  pounds  of 
beans  a  heave  out  into  the  night.  Father  Roland  jmnped 
to  his  assistance,  and  David  saw  his  steamer  trunk  and  his 
hand-bags  follow  the  beans. 

"The  snow  is  soft  and  deep,  an'  there  won't  be  any 
harm  done,"  Father  Roland  assured  him  as  he  tossed  out 
a  50-pound  box  of  prunes. 

David  heard  sounds  now:  a  man's  shout,  a  fiendish 
tonguing  of  dogs,  and  above  that  a  steady  chorus  of  yap- 
ping which  he  guessed  came  from  the  foxes.  Suddenly  a 
lantern  gleamed,  then  a  second  and  a  third,  and  a  dark, 
bearded  face — ^a  fierce  and  piratical-looking  face — began 
running  along  outside  the  door.  The  last  box  and  the 
last  bag  went  off,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  the  train- 
man hauled  David  to  the  door. 

"Jump!"  he  cried. 

The  face  and  the  lantern  had  fallen  behind,  aad  it  was 
as  black  as  an  abyss  outside.  With  a  mute  prayer  David 
launched  himself  much  as  he  had  seen  the  bags  and  boxes 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      41 

sent  out.  He  fell  with  a  thud  in  a  soft  blanket  of  snow. 
He  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the  Little  Missioner  flying  out 
like  a  carious  gargoyle  through  the  door;  the  baggage- 
man's lantern  waved,  the  engineer's  whistle  gave  a  re- 
sponding screech,  and  the  train  whirred  past.  Not  until 
the  tail4ight  of  the  last  coach  was  receding  like  a  great 
red  firefly  in  the  gloom  did  David  get  up.  Father  Roland 
was  on  his  feet,  and  down  the  track  came  two  of  the  three 
lanterns  on  the  run. 

It  was  afl  unusually  weird  and  strangely  interesting  to 
David.  He  was  breathing  deeply.  There  was  a  warmth 
in  his  body  which  was  new  to  him.  It  struck  him  all  at 
once,  as  he  heard  Father  Roland  crunching  through  the 
snow,  that  he  was  exp^-iencing  an  entirely  new  phase  of 
life — a  Gfe  he  had  read  about  at  times  and  dreamed  of  at 
other  times,  but  which  he  had  never  come  jAysically  in 
contact  with.  The  yappwng  of  the  foxes,  the  crying  of  the 
dogs,  those  lanterns  hurrying  down  the  track,  the  blackness 
of  the  night,  and  the  strong  perfume  of  balsam  in  the  cold 
air — an  odour  that  he  breathed  deep  into  his  lungs  like  the 
fumes  oi  an  exhilarating  drink — quickened  sharply  a  pulse 
that  a  few  hours  before  he  thought  was  almost  lifeless. 
He  had  no  time  to  ask  himself  whether  he  was  enjoying 
these  new  sensations;  he  felt  only  the  thrill  of  them  as 
Thoreau  and  the  Indian  came  up  out  of  the  night  with 
their  lanterns.  In  Thoreau  himself,  as  he  stood  a  moment 
later  in  the  glow  of  the  lanterns,  was  embodied  the  hving, 
breathing  spirit  of  this  new  world  into  which  David's 
leap  out  of  the  baggage  car  had  plunged  him.  He  was 
pictm-esquely  of  the  wild;  his  face  was  darkly  bearded;  his 
ivory-white  teeth  shining  as  he  smiled  a  welcome;  his  tri- 


42       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

coloured,  Hudson's  Bay  coat  of  wool,  with  its  frivolous 
red  fringes,  thrown  open  at  the  throat;  the  bushy  tail  of  his 
fisher-skin  cap  hanging  over  a  shoulder — and  with  these 
things  his  voice  rattling  forth,  in  French  and  half  Indian, 
his  joy  that  Father  Roland  was  not  dead  but  had  arrived 
at  last.  Behind  him  stood  the  Indian — ^his  face  without 
expression,  dark,  shrouded — a  bronze  sphinx  of  mystery. 
But  his  eyes  shone  as  the  Little  Missioner  greeted  him — 
shone  so  darkly  and  so  full  of  fire  that  for  a  moment  David 
was  fascinated  by  them.     Then  David  was  introduced. 

"I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  m'sieu,"  said  the  Frenchman. 
His  race  was  softly  polite,  even  in  the  forests,  and  Thoreau's 
voice,  now  mildly  subdued,  came  strangely  from  the 
bearded  wUdness  of  his  face.  The  grip  of  his  hand  was 
like  Father  Roland's — something  David  had  never  felt 
among  his  friends  back  in  the  city.  He  winced  in  the 
darkness,  and  for  a  long  time  afterward  his  fingers  tingled. 

It  was  then  that  David  made  his  first  break  in  the 
etiquette  of  the  forests;  a  fortunate  one,  as  time  proved. 
He  did  not  know  that  shaking  hands  with  an  Indian  was  a 
matter  of  some  formality,  and  so  when  Father  Roland 
said,  "This  is  Mukoki,  who  has  been  with  me  for  many 
years,"  David  thrust  out  his  hand.  Mukoki  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eye  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  blanket- 
coat  parted  and  his  slim,  dark  hand  reached  out.  Having 
received  his  lesson  from  both  the  Missioner  and  the 
Frenchman,  David  put  into  his  grip  all  the  strength  that 
was  in  him — ^the  warmest  hand-shake  Mukoki  had  ever 
received  in  his  life  from  a  white  man,  with  the  exception 
of  his  master,  the  Missioner. 

The  next  thing  David  heard  was  Father  Roland's  voice 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      43 

inquiring  eagerly  about  supper.  Thoreau's  reply  was  in 
French. 

"He  says  the  cabin  is  Hke  the  inside  of  a  great,  roast 
duck,"  chuckled  the  Missioner.  "Come,  David.  We'll 
leave  Mukoki  to  gather  up  our  freight." 

A  short  walk  up  the  track  and  David  saw  the  cabin. 
It  was  back  in  the  shelter  of  the  black  spruce  and  balsam, 
its  two  windows  that  faced  the  railroad  warmly  illumined 
by  the  hght  inside.  The  foxes  had  ceased  their  yapping, 
but  the  snarling  and  howUng  of  dogs  became  more  blood- 
thirsty as  they  drew  nearer,  and  David  could  hear  an 
ominous  chnking  of  chains  and  snapping  of  teeth.  A  few 
steps  more  and  they  were  at  the  door.  Thoreau  himself 
opened  it,  and  stood  back. 

^^Apres  vous,  m^sieu"  he  said,  his  white  teeth  shining 
at  David.  "It  would  give  me  bad  luck  and  possibly  all 
my  foxes  would  die,  if  I  went  into  my  house  ahead  of  a 
stranger." 

David  went  in.  An  Indian  woman  stood  with  her  back 
to  him,  bending  over  a  table.  She  was  as  slim  as  a  reed, 
and  had  the  longest  and  sleekest  black  hair  he  had  ever 
seen,  done  in  two  heavy  braids  that  hung  down  her  back. 
In  another  moment  she  had  turned  her  round,  brown  face, 
and  her  teeth  and  eyes  were  shining,  but  she  spoke  no  word. 
Thoreau  did  not  introduce  his  wild-flower  wife.  He  had 
opened  his  cabin  door,  and  had  let  David  enter  before  him, 
which  was  accepting  him  as  a  friend  in  his  home,  and 
therefore,  in  his  understanding  of  things,  an  introduction 
was  unnecessary  and  out  of  place.  Father  Roland  chuckled, 
rubbed  his  hands  briskly,  and  said  something  to  the 
woman  in  he**  own  language  that  made  her  giggle  shyb'^. 


44      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

It  was  contagious.  David  smiled.  Father  Roland's 
face  was  crinkled  with  little  lines  of  joy.  The  French- 
man's teeth  gleanied.  In  the  big  cook-stove  the  fire 
snapped  and  crackled  and  popped.  Marie  opened  the  stove 
door  to  put  in  more  wood  and  her  face  shone  rosy  and  her 
teeth  were  like  milk  in  the  fire-flash.  Thoreau  went  to 
her  and  laid  his  big,  heavy  hand  fondly  on  her  sleek  head, 
and  said  something  in  soft  Cree  that  brought  another  giggle 
into  Marie's  throat,  hke  the  curious  note  of  a  bird. 

In  David  there  was  a  slow  and  wonderful  awakening. 
Every  fibre  of  him  was  stirred  by  the  cheer  of  this  cabin 
builded  from  logs  rough-hewn  out  of  the  forest;  his  body, 
weakened  by  the  months  of  mental  and  physical  anguish 
which  had  been  his  burden,  seemed  filled  with  a  new 
strength.  Unconsciously  he  was  smiling  and  his  soul  was 
rising  out  of  its  dark  prison  as  he  saw  Thoreau's  big  hand 
stroking  Marie's  shining  hair.  He  was  watching  Thoreau 
when,  at  a  word  from  Marie,  the  Frenchman  suddenly 
swung  open  the  oven  door  and  pulled  forth  a  huge  roasting 
pan. 

At  sight  of  the  pan  Father  Roland  gave  a  joyous  cry, 
and  he  rubbed  his  hands  raspingly  together.  The  rich 
aroma  of  that  pan !  A  delicious  whiflF  of  it  had  struck  their 
nostrils  even  before  the  cabin  door  had  opened — ^that  and 
a  perfume  of  coffee;  but  not  until  now  did  the  fragrance  of 
the  oven  and  the  pan  smite  them  with  all  its  potency. 

"Mallards  fattened  on  wild  rice,  and  a  rabbit — my 
favourite — a  rabbit  roasted  with  an  onion  where  his  heart 
was,  and  well  peppered,"  gloated  the  Little  Missioner. 
"Dear  Heaven!  was  there  ever  such  a  mess  to  put  strength 
into  a  man's  gizzard,  David?    And  coffee — this  coffee  of 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       45 

Marie's !  It  is  more  than  ambrosia.  It  is  an  elixir  which 
transforms  a  cup  into  a  fountain  of  youth.  Take  off 
your  coat,  David;  take  off  your  coat  and  make  yourself  at 
home!" 

As  David  stripped  off  his  coat,  and  followed  that  with 
his  collar  and  tie,  he  thought  of  his  steamer  trunk  with  its 
Tuxedo  and  dress-coat,  its  piqu6  shirts  and  poke  collars, 
its  suede  gloves  and  kid-topped  patent  leathers,  and  he  felt 
the  tips  of  his  ears  beginning  to  burn.  He  was  sorry  now 
that  he  had  given  the  Missioner  the  check  to  that  trimk. 

A  minute  later  he  was  sousing  his  face  in  a  big  tin  wash- 
basin, and  then  drying  it  on  a  towel  that  had  once  been  a 
burlap  bag.  But  he  had  noticed  that  it  was  clean — as 
clean  as  the  pink-flushed  face  of  Marie.  And  the  French- 
man himself,  with  all  his  hair,  and  his  beard,  and  his 
rough-worn  clothing,  was  as  clean  as  the  burlap  towelling. 
Being  a  stranger,  suddenly  plunged  into  a  life  entirely 
new  to  him,  these  things  impressed  David. 

When  they  sat  down  to  the  table — ^Thoreau  Mtting  for 
company,  and  Marie  standing  behind  them — ^he  was  at  a 
loss  at  first  to  know  how  to  begin.  His  plate  was  of  tin 
and  a  foot  in  diameter,  and  on  it  was  a  three-pound  mallard 
duck,  dripping  with  juice  and  as  brown  as  a  ripe  hazel-nut. 
He  made  a  business  of  arranging  his  sleeves  and  drinking  a 
glass  of  water  while  he  watched  the  famished  Little  IVIis- 
sioner.  With  a  chuckle  of  delight  Father  Roland  plunged 
the  tines  of  his  fork  hilt  deep  into  the  breast  oi  the  duck, 
seized  a  leg  in  his  fingers,  and  dismembered  the  luscious 
anatomy  of  his  plate  with  a  deft  twist  and  a  sudden  pull. 
With  his  teeth  buried  in  the  leg  he  looked  across  at  David. 
iDavid  had  eaten  duck  before;  that  is,  he  had  eaten  of  the 


46      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

family  anas  hoschas  disguised  in  thick  gravies  and  highbrow 
sauces,  but  this  duck  that  he  ate  at  Thoreau's  table  was 
IS^e  no  other  duck  that  he  had  ever  tasted  in  all  his  life. 
He  began  with  misgivings  at  the  three-pound  carcass,  and 
he  ended  with  an  entirely  new  feeling  of  stuffed  satisfac- 
tion. He  explored  at  will  into  its  structure,  and  he  found 
succulent  morsels  which  he  had  never  dreamed  of  as  exist- 
ing in  this  particular  bird,  for  his  experience  had  never 
before  gone  beyond  a  leg  of  duck  and  thinly  carved  slices 
of  breast  of  duck,  at  from  eighty  cents  to  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter  an  order.  He  would  have  been  ashamed  of  him- 
self when  he  had  finished  had  it  not  been  that  Father 
Roland  seemed  only  at  the  beginning,  and  was  turning  the 
vigour  of  his  attack  from  duck  to  rabbit  and  onion.  From 
then  on  David  kept  him  company  by  drinking  a  third  cup 
of  coffee. 

When  he  had  finished  Father  Roland  settled  back  with 
a  sigh  of  content,  and  drew  a  worn  buckskin  pouch  from 
one  of  the  voluminous  pockets  of  his  trousers.  Out  of 
this  he  produced  a  black  pipe  and  tobacco.  At  the  same 
time  Thoreau  was  filling  and  lighting  his  own.  In  his 
studies  and  late-hour  work  at  home  David  himself  had 
been  a  pipe  smoker,  but  of  late  his  pipe  had  been  distaste- 
ful to  him,  and  it  had  been  many  weeks  since  he  had 
indulged  in  anything  but  cigars  and  an  occasional  cigarette. 
He  looked  at  the  placid  satisfaction  in  the  little  Mis- 
sioner's  face,  and  saw  Thoreau*s  head  wreathed  in  smoke, 
and  he  felt  for  the  first  time  in  those  weeks  the  return  of  his 
old  desire.  While  they  were  eating,  Mukoki  and  another 
Indian  had  brought  in  his  trunk  and  bags,  and  he  went  now 
to  one  of  the  bags,  opened  it,  and  got  his  own  pipe  and 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MABGE  O^DOONE       47 

tobacco.  As  he  stujffed  the  bowl  of  his  English  briar,  and 
lighted  the  tobacco.  Father  Eoland's  glowing  face  beamed 
at  him  through  the  fragrant  fumes  of  his  Hudson's  Bay 
Mixture. 

Against  the  waU,  a  little  in  shadow,  so  that  she  would 
not  be  a  part  oi  their  company  or  whatever  conversation 
they  might  have,  Marie  had  seated  herself,  her  round  chin 
in  the  cup  of  her  brown  hand,  her  dark  eyes  shining  at  this 
comfort  and  satisfaction  of  men.  Such  scenes  as  this 
amply  repaid  her  for  all  her  toil  in  life.  She  was  happy. 
There  was  content  in  this  cabin.  David  felt  it.  It 
impinged  itself  upon  him,  and  through  him,  in  a  strange 
and  mysterious  way.  Within  these  log  walls  he  felt  the 
presence  of  that  spirit — ^the  joy  of  companionship  and  of 
life — ^which  had  so  terribly  eluded  and  escaped  him  in  his 
own  home  of  wealth  and  luxury.  He  heard  Marie  speak 
only  once  that  night — once,  in  a  low,  soft  voice  to  Thoreau, 
She  was  silent  with  the  silence  of  the  Cree  wife  in  the 
presence  of  a  stranger,  but  he  knew  that  her  heart  was 
throbbing  with  the  soft  pulse  of  happiness,  and  for  some 
reason  he  was  glad  when  Thoreau  nodded  proudly  toward 
a  closed  door  and  let  him  know  that  she  was  a  mother. 
Marie  heard  him,  and  in  that  moment  David  caught  in 
her  face  a  look  that  made  his  heart  ache — ^a  look  that  should 
have  been  a  part  of  his  own  Hfe,  and  which  he  had  missed. 

A  Uttle  later  Thoreau  led  the  way  into  the  room  which 
David  was  to  occupy  for  the  night.  It  was  a  small  room, 
with  a  sapling  partition  between  it  and  the  one  in  which 
the  Missioner  was  to  sleep.  The  fox  breeder  placed  a 
lamp  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  and  bade  David  good- 
night. 


48      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

It  was  past  two  o'clock,  and  yet  David  felt  at  the  present 
moment  no  desire  for  sleep.  After  he  had  taken  off  his 
shoes  and  partially  undressed,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed  and  allowed  his  mind  to  sweep  back  over  the  events 
of  the  last  few  hours.  Again  he  thought  of  the  woman 
in  the  coach — the  woman  with  those  wonderful,  dark 
eyes  and  haunting  face — and  he  drew  forth  from  his  coat 
pocket  the  package  which  she  had  forgotten.  He  handled 
it  curiously.  He  looked  at  the  red  string,  noted  how 
tightly  the  knot  was  tied,  and  turned  it  over  and  over  in 
his  hands  before  he  snapped  the  string.  He  was  a  little 
ashamed  at  his  eagerness  to  know  what  was  within  its 
worn  newspaper  wrapping.  He  felt  the  disgrace  of  his 
curiosity,  even  though  he  assured  himself  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  investigate  the  package  now 
when  aU  ownership  was  lost.  He  knew  that  he  would  never 
see  the  woman  again,  and  that  she  would  always  remain 
a  mystery  to  him  unless  what  he  held  in  his  hands  revealed 
the  secret  of  her  identity. 

A  half  minute  more  and  he  was  leaning  over  in  the  full 
light  of  the  lamp,  his  two  hands  clutching  the  thing  which 
the  paper  had  disclosed  when  it  dropped  to  the  floor,  his 
eyes  staring,  his  Ups  parted,  and  his  heart  seeming  to  stand 
still  in  the  utter  aaaazement  of  the  moment! 


CHAPTER  V 

DAVID  held  in  his  hands  a  photograph — ^the  picture 
of  a  girl.  He  had  half  guessed  what  he  would  find 
when  he  began  to  unfold  the  newspaper  wrapping 
and  saw  the  edge  of  gray  cardboard.  In  the  same  breath 
had  come  his  astonishment — a  surprise  that  was  almost  a 
shock.  The  night  had  been  filled  with  changes  for  him; 
forces  which  he  had  not  yet  begun  to  comprehend  had 
drawn  him  into  the  beginning  of  a  strange  adventure; 
they  had  purged  his  thoughts  of  himself;  they  had  forced 
upon  him  other  things,  other  people,  and  a  glimpse  or  two 
of  another  sort  of  life;  he  had  seen  tragedy,  and  happiness 
— a  bit  of  something  to  laugh  at;  and  he  had  felt  the  thrill 
of  it  all.  A  few  hours  had  made  him  the  bewildered  and 
yet  passive  object  of  the  unexj>ected.  And  now,  as  he  sat 
alone  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  had  come  the  climax  of  the 
unexpected. 

The  girl  in  the  picture  was  not  dead — ^not  merely  a  life- 
less shadow  put  there  by  the  art  of  a  camera.  She  was 
aUve!  That  was  his  first  thought — ^his  first  impression. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  come  upon  her  suddenly,  and  by  his 
presence  had  startled  her — ^had  made  her  face  him  squarely, 
tensely,  a  httle  frightened,  and  yet  defiant,  and  ready  for 
flight.  In  that  first  moment  he  would  not  have  disbe- 
lieved his  eyes  if  she  had  moved,  if  she  had  drawn  away 
from  him  and  disappeared  out  of  the  picture  with  the 


50      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

s\nftness  of  a  bird.  For  he — some  one — ^had  startled  her; 
some  one  had  frightened  her;  some  one  had  made  her  afraid, 
and  yet  defiant;  some  one  had  roused  in  her  that  bird-Uke 
impulse  of  flight  even  as  the  camera  had  chcked. 

He  bent  closer  into  the  lampglow,  and  stared.  The 
girl  was  stancHng  on  a  flat  slab  of  rock  close  to  the  edge  of 
a  pool.  Behind  her  was  a  carpet  of  white  sand,  and  be- 
yond that  a  rock-cluttered  gorge  and  the  side  of  a  mountain. 
She  was  barefooted.  Her  feet  were  white  against  the  dark 
rock.  Her  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows,  and  shone  with 
that  same  whiteness.  He  took  these  things  in  one  by  one, 
as  if  it  were  impossible  for  the  picture  to  impress  itself  upon 
him  all  at  once.  She  stood  leaning  a  Uttle  forward  on  the 
rock  slab,  her  dress  only  a  Uttle  below  her  knees,  and  as  she 
leaned  thus,  her  eyes  flashing  and  her  hps  parted,  the  wind 
had  flung  a  wonderful  disarray  of  curls  over  her  shoulder 
and  breast.  He  saw  the  sunlight  in  them;  in  the  lamp- 
giow  they  seemed  to  move;  the  throb  of  her  breast  seemed 
to  give  them  life;  one  hand  seemed  about  to  fling  them 
back  from  her  face;  her  Hps  quivered  as  if  about  to 
speak  to  him.  Against  the  savage  background  of 
mountain  and  gorge  she  stood  out  clear-cut  as  a  cameo, 
slender  as  a  reed,  wUd,  palpitating,  beautiful.  She  was 
more  than  a  picture.  She  was  life.  She  was  there — 
with  David  in  his  room — as  surely  as  the  woma^  had  been 
with  him  in  the  coach. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  sat  back  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed.  He  heard  Father  Roland  getting  into  his  creaky  bed 
in  the  adjoining  room.     Then  came  the  Missioner's  voice. 

"Good-night,  David." 

"Good-night,  Father." 


X 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       51 

For  a  space  after  that  he  sat  staring  blankly  at  the  log 
wall  of  his  room.  Then  he  leaned  over  again  and  held  the 
photograph  a  second  time  in  the  lampglow.  The  first 
strange  spell  of  the  pictiu^  was  broken,  and  he  looked  at  it 
more  coolly,  more  critically,  a  little  disgusted  with  him- 
self for  having  allowed  his  imagination  to  play  a  trick  on 
him.  He  turned  it  over  in  his  hands,  and  on  the  back  of 
the  cardboard  mount  he  saw  there  had  been  writing.  He 
examined  it  closely,  and  made  out  faintly  the  words, 
"Firepan  Creek,  Stikine  Riv^,  August  ..."  and 
the  date  was  gone.  That  was  all.  There  was  no  name,  no 
word  that  might  give  him  a  clue  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
mysterious  woman  in  the  coach,  or  her  relationship  to  the 
strange  picture  she  had  left  in  hea*  seat  when  she  disap- 
peared at  Graham. 

Once  more  his  puzzled  eyes  tried  to  find  some  solution  to 
the  mystery  of  this  night  in  the  picture  of  the  girl  herself, 
and  as  he  looked,  question  aftw  question  pounded  through 
his  head.  What  had  startled  her?  Who  had  frightened 
her?  What  had  brought  that  hunted  look — that  half- 
defiance — into  her  poise  and  eyes,  just  as  he  had  seen  the 
strange  questing  and  suppressed  fear  in  the  eyes  and  face 
of  the  woman  in  the  coach?  He  made  no  effort  to  answer, 
but  accepted  the  visual  facts  as  they  came  to  him.  She 
was  young,  the  girl  in  the  picttu-e;  almost  a  child  as  he  re- 
garded childhood.  Perhaps  seventeen,  or  a  month  or  two 
older;  he  was  cmdously  precise  in  adding  that  month  or 
two.  Something  in  the  woman  of  her  as  she  stood  on  the 
rock  made  it  occur  to  him  as  necessary.  He  saw,  now, 
that  she  had  been  wading  in  the  pool,  for  she  had  dropped 
a  stocking  on  the  white  sand,  and  near  it  lay  an  object  that 


52      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

was  a  shoe  or  a  moccasin,  he  could  not  make  out  which. 
It  was  while  she  had  been  wading — ^alone — that  the  in- 
terruption had  come;  she  had  turned;  she  had  sprung  to 
the  flat  rock,  her  hands  a  Kttle  clenched,  her  eyes  flashing, 
her  breast  panting  under  the  smother  of  her  hair;  and  it 
was  in  this  moment,  as  she  stood  ready  to  fight — or  fly — 
that  the  camera  had  caught  her. 

Now,  as  he  scanned  this  picture,  as  it  lived  before  his 
eyes,  a  faint  smile  played  over  his  lips,  a  smile  in  which 
there  was  a  little  humour  and  much  irony.  He  had  been 
a  fool  that  day,  twice  a  fool,  perhaps  three  times  a  fool. 
Nothing  but  folly,  a  diseased  conception  of  things,  could 
have  made  him  see  tragedy  in  the  face  of  the  woman  in  the 
coach,  or  have  induced  him  to  follow  her.  Sleeplessness — 
a  mental  exhaustion  to  which  his  body  had  not  responded 
m  two  days  and  two  nights — ^had  dulled  his  senses  and  his 
reason.  He  felt  an  unpleasant  desire  to  laugh  at  himself. 
Tragedy!  A  woman  in  distress !  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  his  teeth  gleamed  in  a  cold  smile  at  the  girl  in  the  pic- 
ture. Surely  there  was  no  tragedy  or  mystery  in  her  poise 
on  that  rock !  She  had  been  bathing,  alone,  hidden  away  as 
she  thought;  some  one  had  crept  up,  had  disturbed  her,  and 
the  camera  had  clicked  at  the  psychological  moment  of  her 
bird-like  poise  when  she  was  not  yet  decided  whether  to 
turn  in  flight  or  remain  and  punish  the  intruder  with  her 
anger.  It  was  quite  dear  to  him.  Any  girl  caught  in  the 
same  way  might  have  betrayed  the  same  emotions.  But 
— ^Firepan  Creek — Stikine  River  .  .  .  And  she  w^as 
wild.  She  was  a  creature  of  those  mountains  and  that 
wild  gorge,  wherever  they  were — ^and  beautiful — slender 
as  a  flower — ^lovelier  than    .     .     . 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      53 

David  set  his  lips  tight.  They  shut  off  a  quick  breath, 
a  gasp,  the  sharp  surge  of  a  sudden  pain.  Swift  as  his 
thoughts  there  had  come  a  transformation  in  the  picture 
before  his  eyes — a  drawing  of  a  curtain  over  it,  like  a 
golden  veil;  and  then  she  was  standing  there,  and  the  gold 
had  gathered  about  her  in  the  wonderful  mantle  of  her 
hair — shining,  dishevelled  hair — a.  bare,  white  arm  thrust 
upward  through  its  sheen,  and  her  face — ^taunting,  un- 
afraid — laughing  at  him!  Good  God!  could  he  never  kill 
that  memory?  Was  it  upon  him  again  to-night,  clutching 
at  his  throat,  stifling  his  heart,  grinding  him  into  the  agony 
he  could  not  fight — ^that  vision  of  her — his  wife?  That 
girl  on  her  rock,  so  like  a  slender  flower!  That  woman  in 
her  room,  so  like  a  golden  goddess!  Both  caught — unex- 
pectedly! What  devil-spirit  had  made  him  pick  up  this 
picture  from  the  woman's  seat.?     What     .     .     . 

His  fingers  tightened  upon  the  photograph,  ready  to 
tear  it  into  bits.  The  cardboard  ripped  an  inch — and  he 
stopped  suddenly  his  impulse  to  destroy.  The  girl  was 
looking  at  him  again  from  out  of  the  picture — ^looking  at 
him  with  clear,  wide  eyes,  surprised  at  his  weakness, 
startled  by  the  fierceness  of  his  assault  upon  her,  wondering, 
amazed,  questioning  him!  For  the  first  time  he  saw 
what  he  had  missed  before — that  questioning  in  her  eyes. 
It  was  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  asking  him  something 
— as  if  her  voice  had  just  come  from  between  her  parted 
lips,  or  were  about  to  come.  And  for  him;  that  was  it — 
for  him! 

HLs  fingers  relaxed.  He  smoothed  down  the  torn  edge 
of  the  cardboard,  as  if  it  had  been  a  wound  in  his  own 
flesh.     After  all,  this  inanimate  thing  was  very  much  like 


54      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

himself.  It  was  lost,  a  thing  out  of  place,  and  out  of  home; 
a  wanderer  from  now  on  depending  largely,  like  himself,  on 
the  charity  of  fate.  Almost  gently  he  returned  it  to  its 
newspaper  wrapping.  Deep  within  him  there  was  a  senti- 
ment which  made  him  cherish  Httle  things  which  had 
belonged  to  the  past — a  baby's  shoe,  a  faded  ribbon,  a 
withered  flower  that  she  had  worn  on  the  night  they  were 
married;  and  memories — memories  that  he  might  better 
have  let  droop  and  die.  Something  of  this  spirit  was  in  the 
touch  of  his  fingers  as  he  placed  the  photograj^  on  the 
table. 

He  finished  undressing  quietly.  Before  he  turned  in  he 
placed  a  hand  on  his  head.  It  was  hot,  feverish.  This  waa 
not  unusual,  and  it  did  not  alarm  hiuL  Quite  often  of  late 
these  hot  and  feverish  spells  had  come  upon  him,  nearly 
always  at  night.  Usually  they  were  followed  the  next  day 
by  a  terrific  headache.  More  and  more  frequently  they 
had  been  warning  him  how  nearly  down  and  out  he  was, 
and  he  knew  what  to  expect.  He  put  out  his  light  and 
stretched  himself  between  the  warm  blankets  of  his  bed, 
knowing  that  he  was  about  to  begin  again  the  fight  he 
dreaded — ^the  struggle  that  always  came  at  night  with  the 
demon  that  lived  within  him,  the  demon  that  was  feeding 
on  his  life  as  a  leech  feeds  on  blood,  the  demon  that  was 
killing  him  inch  by  iuch.  Nerves  altogether  unstrung  1 
Nerves  frayed  and  broken  until  they  were  bleeding! 
Worry — emptiness  of  heart  and  soul — a  world  turned 
black!  And  all  because  of  her — ^the  golden  goddess  who 
had  laughed  at  him  in  her  room,  whose  laughter  would 
never  die  out  of  his  ears.  He  gritted  his  teeth;  his  hands 
clenched  under  his   blankets;   a   surge  of  anger  swept 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       55 

through  him — ^for  an  instant  it  was  almost  hatred.  Was 
rt  possible  that  she — that  woman  who  had  been  his  wife — ' 
could  chain  him  now,  enslave  his  thoughts,  fill  his  mind, 
his  brain,  his  body,  after  what  had  happened?  Why  was 
it  that  he  could  not  rise  up  and  laugh  and  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders, and  thank  God  that,  after  aU,  there  had  been  no 
chfldren?    Why  couldn't  he  do  that?     Whyf    Why? 

A  long  time  afterward  he  seemed  to  be  asking  that  ques- 
tion. He  seemed  to  be  crying  it  out  aloud,  over  and  over 
agaan,  in  a  strange  and  mysterious  wilderness;  and  at  last 
he  seemed  to  be  very  near  to  a  girl  who  was  standing  on  a 
rock  waiting  for  him;  a  girl  who  bent  toward  him  like  a 
wonderful  flower,  her  arms  reaching  out,  her  lips  parted, 
her  eyes  shining  through  the  glory  of  her  windsw^t  hair 
as  she  Hstened  to  his  cry  of  "  Why?    Why?'* 

He  slept.  It  was  a  deep,  cool  sleep;  a  slumber  beside 
a  shadowed  pool,  with  the  wind  whisp^ing  gently  in 
strange  tree  tops,  and  water  rippling  softly  in  a  strange 
stream. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUNSHINE  followed  storm.  The  winter  sun  was 
cresting  the  tree  tops  when  Thoreau  got  out  of  his 
bed  to  build  a  fire  in  the  big  stove.  It  was  nine 
o'clock,  and  bitterly  cold.  The  frost  lay  thick  upon  the 
windows,  with  the  sun  staining  it  like  the  silver  and  gold 
of  old  cathedral  glass,  and  as  the  fox  breeder  opened  the 
cabin  door  to  look  at  his  thermometer  he  heard  the  snap 
and  crack  of  that  cold  in  the  trees  outside,  and  in  the  tim- 
bers of  the  log  walls.  He  always  looked  at  the  thermome- 
ter before  he  built  his  fire — a  fixed  habit  in  him;  he  wanted 
to  know,  first  of  all,  whether  it  had  been  a  good  night  for 
his  foxes,  and  whether  it  had  been  too  cold  for  the  furred 
creatiu'es  of  the  forest  to  travel.  Fifty  degrees  below  zero 
was  bad  for  fisher  and  marten  and  lynx;  on  such  nights 
they  preferred  the  warmth  of  snug  holes  and  deep  wind- 
falls to  full  stomachs,  and  his  traps  were  usually  empty. 
This  morning  it  was  forty-seven  degrees  below  zero. 
Cold  enough!  He  turned,  closed  tJie  door,  shivered. 
Then  he  stopped  halfway  to  the  stove,  and  stared. 

Last  night,  or  rather  in  that  black  jmrt  erf  the  early  day 
when  they  had  gone  to  bed.  Father  Roland  had  warned 
him  to  make  no  noise  in  the  morning;  that  they  would  let 
David  sleep  until  noon;  that  he  was  sick,  worn  out,  and 
needed  rest.  And  there  he  stood  now  in  the  doorway  of 
his  room,  even  before  the  fire  was  started — ^looking  five 

66 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      57 

years  younger  than  he  looked  last  night,  nodding  cheer- 
fuUy. 

Thoreau  grinned. 

"Boo-joUf  m^sieuy*  he  said  in  his  Cree-French.  "My 
order  was  to  make  no  noise  and  to  let  you  sleep,"  and  he 
nodded  toward  the  Missioner*s  room. 

"The  sun  woke  me,"  said  David.  "Come  here.  I 
want  you  to  see  it!" 

Thoreau  went  and  stood  beside  him,  and  David  pointed 
to  the  one  window  of  his  room,  which  faced  the  rising  sun. 
The  window  was  covered  with  frost,  and  the  frost  as  they 
looked  at  it  was  like  a  golden  jfire. 

"I  think  that  was  what  woke  me,"  he  said.  "At  least 
my  eyes  were  on  it  when  I  opened  them.     It  is  wonderful ! " 

"It  is  very  told,  and  the  frost  is  thick,"  said  Thoreau. 
"It  win  go  quickly  after  I  have  built  a  fire,  m'sieu.  And 
then  you  will  see  the  sun — ^the  real  sun." 

David  watched  him  as  he  built  the  fire.  The  first 
crackling  of  it  sent  a  comfort  through  him.  He  had  slept 
well,  so  soundly  that  not  once  had  he  roused  himself  during 
his  six  hours  in  bed.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  slept 
like  that  in  months.  His  blood  tingled  with  a  new  warmth. 
He  had  no  headache.  There  was  not  that  dull  pain  be- 
hind his  eyes.  He  breathed  more  easily — ^the  air  p>assed 
like  a  tonic  into  his  limgs.  It  was  as  if  those  wonderful 
hours  of  sleep  had  wrested  some  deadly  obstruction  out 
of  his  veins.  The  fire  crackled.  It  roared  up  the  big 
chimney.  The  jack-pine  knots,  heavy  with  pitch,  gave 
to  the  top  of  the  stove  a  rosy  glow.  Thoreau  stuffed  more 
fuel  into  the  blazing  firepot,  and  the  glow  spread  cheer- 
fully, and  with  the  warmth  that  was  filling  the  cabin  there 


58      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

mingled  the  sweet  scent  of  the  pine-pitch  and  burning 
balsam.  David  rubbed  his  hands.  He  was  rubbing  them 
when  Marie  came  into  the  room,  plaiting  the  second  of  her 
two  great  ropes  of  shining  black  hair.  He  nodded.  Marie 
smiled,  showing  her  white  teeth,  her  dark  eyes  clear  as  a 
fawn's.  He  felt  within  him  a  strange  rejoicing — ^for  Tho- 
reau.  Thoreau  was  a  lucky  man.  He  could  see  proof  of  it 
in  the  Cree  woman's  face.  Both  were  lucky.  They  were 
happy — a  man  and  woman  together,  as  things  should  be. 

Thoreau  had  broken  the  ice  in  a  pail  and  now  he  £lled 
the  wash-basin  for  him.  Ice  water  for  his  morning 
ablution  was  a  new  thing  for  David.  But  he  plunged  his 
face  into  it  recklessly.  Little  particles  of  ice  pricked  his 
skin,  and  the  chill  of  the  water  seemed  to  sink  into  his 
vitals.  It  was  a  sudden  change  from  water  as  hot  as  he 
could  stand — ^to  this.  His  teeth  clicked  as  he  wiped  him- 
self on  the  bm-lap  towelling.  Marie  used  the  basin  next, 
and  then  Thoreau.  When  Marie  had  dried  her  face  he 
noted  the  old-rose  flush  in  her  cheeks,  the  fire  of  rich,  red 
blood  glowing  under  her  dark  skin.  Thoreau  himself 
blubbered  and  spouted  in  his  ice-water  bath  like  a  joyous 
porpoise,  and  he  rubbed  himself  on  the  burlap  until  the 
two  apple-red  spots  above  his  beard  shone  like  the  glow 
that  had  spread  over  the  top  of  the  stove.  David  found 
himself  noticing  these  things — ^very  small  things  though 
they  were;  he  discovered  himself  taking  a  sudden  and 
ciuious  interest  in  events  and  things  of  no  importance  at 
aU,  even  in  the  quick,  deft  slash  of  the  Frenchman's  long 
knife  as  he  cut  up  the  huge  whitefish  that  was  to  be  their 
breakfast.  He  watched  Marie  as  she  wallowed  the  thick 
slices  in  yellow  corn-meal,  and  listened  to  the  first  hissiBg 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       59 

sjjutter  of  them  as  they  were  dropped  into  the  hot  grease 
of  the  skillet.  And  the  odour  of  the  fish,  taken  only 
yesterday  from  the  net  which  Thoreau  kept  in  the  frozea 
lake,  made  him  hungry.  This  was  unusual.  It  was  unex- 
pected as  other  things  that  had  happened.     It  puzzled  him. 

He  returned  to  his  room,  with  a  suspicion  in  his  minci 
that  he  should  put  on  a  collar  and  tie,  and  his  coat.  He 
changed  his  mind  when  he  saw  the  photograph  in  its 
newspaper  wrapping  on  the  table.  In  another  moment  it 
was  in  his  hands.  Now,  with  day  in  the  room,  the  sun 
shining,  he  expected  to  see  a  change.  But  there  was  no 
change  in  her;  she  was  there,  as  he  had  left  her  last  night; 
the  question  was  in  her  eyes,  unsj>oken  words  still  on  her 
lips.  Then,  suddenly,  it  swept  upon  him  where  he  had 
been  in  those  first  hours  of  peaceful  slumber  that  had  come 
to  him — beside  a  quiet,  dark  pool — ^gently  whispering 
forests  about  him — an  angel  standing  close  to  him,  on  a 
rock,  shrouded  in  her  hair — ^watching  over  him.  A 
thrill  passed  through  him.  Was  it  possible?  ...  He 
did  not  finish  the  question.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  ask  whether  this  picture — some  strange  spirit  it  might 
possess — had  reached  out  to  him,  quieted  him,  made  h^n\ 
sleep,  brought  him  dreams  that  were  like  a  healing  medi- 
cine.    And  yet    .     .     . 

He  remembered  that  in  one  of  his  leather  bags  there  was 
a  magnifying  glass,  and  he  assured  himself  that  he  was 
merely  curious — most  casually  curious — ^as  he  hunted  it 
out  from  among  his  belongings  and  scanned  the  almost 
illegible  writing  on  the  back  of  the  cardboard  motimt.  He 
made  out  the  date  quite  easily  now,  impressed  in  the  card- 
board by  tlie  point  of  a  pencil     It  was  only  a  little  more 


60      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

than  a  year  old.  It  was  unaccountable  why  this  discovery 
should  affect  him  as  it  did.  He  made  no  effOTt  to  measure 
or  sound  the  satisfaction  it  gave  him — this  knowledge  that 
the  girl  had  stood  so  recently  on  that  rock  beside  the  pool. 
He  was  b^inning  to  personalize  her  unconsciously,  be- 
ginning to  think  of  her  mentally  as  the  Girl.  She  was  a 
bit  friendly.  With  her  looking  at  him  hke  that  he  did  not 
feel  quite  so  alone  with  himself.  And  there  could  not  be 
much  of  a  change  in  her  since  that  yesterday  of  a  year  ago, 
when  some  one  had  startled  her  there. 

It  was  Father  Roland's  voice  that  made  him  wrap  up 
the  picture  again,  this  time  not  in  its  old  covering,  but  in 
a  silk  handkerchief  which  he  had  pawed  out  of  his  bag, 
and  which  he  dropped  back  again,  and  locked  in.  Thoreau 
was  telling  the  Missioner  about  David's  early  rising  when 
the  latter  reappeared.  They  shook  hands,  and  the  Mis- 
sioner, looking  David  keenly  in  the  eyes,  saw  the  change  in 
him. 

"No  need  to  tell  me  you  had  a  good  night!  "he exclaimed. 

"Splendid,"  affirmed  David. 

The  window  was  blazing  with  the  golden  sun  now;  it  shot 
through  where  the  frost  was  giving  way,  and  a  ray  of  it 
fell  like  a  fiery  shaft  on  Marie's  glossy  head  as  she  bent 
over  the  table.  Father  Roland  pointed  to  the  window 
with  one  hand  on  David's  arm. 

"Wait  until  you  get  out  into  thcd'^  he  said.  "This  is 
just  a  beginning,  David — ^just  a  beginning!" 

They  sat  down  to  breakfast,  fish  and  coffee,  bread  and 
potatoes — ^and  beans.  It  was  almost  finished  when  David 
split  open  his  third  piece  of  fish,  white  as  snow  under  its 
carisp  brown,  and  asked  quite  casually: 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      61 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Stikine  River,  Father?" 

Father  Roland  sat  up,  stopped  his  eating,  and  looked  at 
David  for  a  moment  as  though  the  question  struck  an 
unusual  personal  interest  in  him. 

"I  know  a  man  who  lived  for  a  great  many  years  along 
the  Stikine,"  he  replied  then.  "He  knows  every  mile  of  it 
from  where  it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Point  Rothshay  to 
the  Lost  Country  between  Mount  Finlay  and  the  Sheep 
Mountains.  It's  in  the  northern  part  of  British  Columbia, 
with  its  upper  waters  reaching  into  the  Yukon.  A  wild 
country.  A  country  less  known  than  it  was  sixty  years 
ago,  when  there  was  a  gold  rush  up  over  the  old  telegraph 
trail.  Tavish  has  told  me  a  lot  about  it.  A  queer  man — 
this  Tavish.  We  hit  his  cabin  on  our  way  to  God's 
Lake." 

"Did  he  ever  tell  you,"  said  David,  with  an  odd  quiver 
in  his  throat — "Did  he  ever  tell  you  of  a  stream,  a  tribu- 
tary stream,  called  Firepan  Creek?" 

"Firepan  Creek — ^Firepan  Creek,"  mumbled  the  Little 
MissiouCT.  "He  has  told  me  a  great  many  things,  this 
Tavish,  but  I  can't  remember  that.  Firepan  Creek  J 
Yes,  he  did!  I  remember,  now.  He  had  a  cabin  on  it  one 
year,  the  year  he  had  small-pox.  He  almost  died  there. 
I  want  you  to  meet  Tavish,  David.  We  will  stay  ovct- 
night  at  his  cabin.  He  is  a  strange  character — a  gre^t 
object  lesson."  Suddenly  he  came  back  to  David's 
question.  "What  do  you  want  to  know  about  Stikine 
River  and  Firepan  Creek?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  reading  something  about  them  that  interested 
me,"  replied  David.  "A  very  wild  country,  I  take  it,  from 
what  Tavish  has  told  you.    Probably  no  white  people." 


62      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Always,  everywhere,  there  are  a  few  white  people,** 
said  Father  Roland.  "Tavish  is  white,  and  he  was  there. 
Sixty  years  ago,  in  the  gold  rush,  there  must  have  been 
many.  But  I  fancy  there  are  very  few  now.  Tavish  can 
tell  us.  He  came  from  there  only  a  year  ago  this  last 
September." 

David  asked  no  more  questions.  He  turned  his  atten- 
tion entirely  to  his  fish.  In  that  same  moment  there  came 
an  outbiu-st  from  the  foxes  that  made  Thoreau  grin. 
Their  yapping  rose  until  it  was  a  clamorous  demand. 
Then  the  dogs  joined  in.  To  David  it  seemed  as  though 
there  must  be  a  thousand  foxes  out  in  the  Frenchman's 
pens,  and  at  least  a  hundred  dogs  just  beyond  the  cabin 
walls.  The  sound  was  blood-curdling  in  a  way.  He  had 
heard  nothing  like  it  before  in  all  his  life;  it  almost  made 
one  shiver  to  think  of  going  outside.  The  chorus  kept  up 
for  fuUy  a  minute.  Then  it  began  to  die  out,  and  David 
could  hear  the  chill  clink  of  chains.  Through  it  all 
Thoreau  was  grinning. 

"It's  two  hours  over  feeding  time  for  the  foxes,  and  they 
know  it,  m'sieur,"  he  explained  to  David.  "Their  outcry 
excites  the  huskies,  and  when  the  two  go  together — Mon 
Dieu  !  it  is  enough  to  raise  the  dead."  He  pushed  himself 
back  from  the  table  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  am  going  to 
feed  them  now.     Would  you  like  to  see  it,  m'sieu.'* " 

Father  Roland  answered  for  him. 

"Give  us  ten  minutes  and  we  shall  be  ready,"  he  said, 
seizing  David  by  the  arm,  and  speaking  to  Thoreau. 
"  Come  with  me,  David.    I  have  something  waiting  for  you." 

They  went  into  the  Little  Missioner's  room,  and  pointing 
to  his  tumbled  bed.  Father  Roland  said: 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       63 

"Now,  David,  strip!" 

David  had  noticed  with  some  concern  the  garments 
worn  that  morning  by  Father  Roland  and  the  Frenchman 
— ^their  thick  woollen  shirts,  their  strange-looking,  heavy- 
trousers  that  were  met  just  below  the  knees  by  the  tops 
of  bulky  German  socks,  turned  over  as  he  had  worn  his 
more  fashionable  hosiery  in  the  college  days  when  golf 
suits,  bulldog  pipes,  and  white  terriers  were  the  rage.  He 
had  stared  furtively  at  Thoreau's  great  feet  in  their 
moose-hide  moccasins,  thinking  of  his  own  vici  kids,  the 
heaviest  footwear  he  had  brought  with  him.  The  problem 
of  outfitting  was  solved  for  him  now,  as  he  looked  at  the 
bed,  and  as  Father  Roland  withdrew,  rubbing  his  hands 
until  they  cracked,  David  began  undressing.  In  less  than 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  ready  for  the  big  outdoors. 
When  the  Missioner  returned  to  give  him  a  first  lesson  in 
properly  "stringing  up  "  his  moccasins,  he  brought  with  hin? 
a  fur  cap  very  similar  to  that  worn  by  Thoreau.  He  was 
amazed  to  find  how  perfectly  it  fitted. 

"You  see,"  said  Father  Roland,  pleased  at  David's 
wonder,  "I  always  take  back  a  bale  of  this  stuff  with  me, 
of  different  sizes*  it  comes  in  handy,  you  know.  And  the 
cap    .     .     ." 

He  chuckled  as  David  surveyed  as  much  as  he  could 
see  of  himself  in  a  small  mirror. 

"The  cap  is  Marie's  work,"  he  finished.  "She  got  the 
size  from  your  hat  and  made  it  while  we  were  asleep. 
A  fine  fisher-coat  that — ^Thoreau's  best.  And  a  good  fit, 
eh?" 

"Marie  .  .  .  did  this  ...  for  me?"  de- 
manded David. 


64      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

The  Missioner  nodded. 

"And  the  pay.  Father    ..." 

"Among  friends  of  the  forests,  David,  never  speak  of  pay." 

"But  this  skin!    It  is  beautiful — ^valuable.    .     .     ." 

"And  it  is  yoiu-s,"  said  Father  Roland.  "I  am  glad 
you  mentioned  payment  to  me,  and  not  to  Thoreau  or 
Marie.  They  might  not  have  understood,  and  it  would 
have  hurt  them.  K  there  had  been  anything  to  pay,  they 
would  have  mentioned  it  in  the  giving;  I  would  have  men- 
tioned it.     That  is  a  fine  point  of  etiquette,  isn't  it?" 

Slowly  there  came  a  look  into  David's  face  which  the 
other  did  not  at  first  understand.  After  a  moment  he 
said,  without  looking  at  the  Missioner,  and  in  a  voice 
that  had  a  ciu'ious  hard  note  in  it: 

"But  for  this  .  .  .  Marie  will  let  me  give  her  some- 
thing in  return — a,  httle  something  I  have  no  use  for  now? 
A  Httle  gift — ^my  thanks — my  friendship     .     .     .' 

He  did  not  wait  for  the  Missioner  to  reply,  but  went 
to  one  of  his  two  leather  bags.  He  unlocked  the  one  in 
which  he  had  placed  the  photograph  of  the  girl.  Out  of  it 
he  took  a  smaU  plush  box.  It  was  so  small  that  it  lay 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand  as  he  held  it  out  to  Father  Roland. 

Deeper  lines  had  gathered  about  his  mouth. 

"Give  this  to  Marie — ^for  me." 

Father  Roknd  took  the  box.  He  did  not  look  at  it* 
Steadily  he  gazed  into  David's  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  locket,"  repHed  David.  "It  belonged  to  her.  In 
It  is  a  picture — ^her  picture — ^the  only  one  I  have.  Will 
you — ^pkase — destroy  the  picture  before  you  give  the 
locket  to  Marie?" 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       65 

Father  Roland  saw  the  quick,  sudden  throb  in  David's 
throat.  He  gripped  the  httle  box  in  his  hand  until  it 
seemed  as  though  he  would  crush  it,  and  his  heart  was 
beating  with  the  triumph  of  a  drum.  He  spoke  but  one 
word,  his  eyes  meeting  David's  eyes,  but  that  one  word 
was  a  whisper  from  straight  out  of  his  soul,  and  the  word 
was: 

"Vidaryr 


CHAPTER  Vn 

FATHER  ROLAND  slipped  the  Kttle  plush  box  into 
his  pocket  as  he  and  David  went  out  to  join  Tho- 
reau.  They  left  the  cabin  together,  Marie  Ufting 
her  eyes  from  her  work  in  a  furtive  glance  to  see  if  the 
stranger  was  wearing  her  cap, 

A  wild  outcry  from  the  dogs  greeted  the  three  men  as 
they  appeared  outside  the  door,  and  for  the  first  time 
David  saw  with  his  eyes  what  he  had  only  heard  last  night. 
Among  the  balsams  and  spruce  close  to  the  cabin  there  were 
fully  a  score  of  the  wildest  and  most  savage-looking  dogs 
he  had  ever  beheld.  As  he  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing 
about  him,  three  things  impressed  themselves  upon  him 
in  a  flash:  it  was  a  glorious  day,  it  was  so  cold  that  he  felt 
a  curious  sting  in  the  air,  and  not  one  of  those  long-haired, 
white-fanged  beasts  straining  at  their  leashes  possessed  a 
kennel,  or  even  a  brush  shelter.  It  was  this  last  fact 
that  struck  him  most  forcefully.  Inherently  he  was  a 
lover  of  animals,  and  he  believed  these  four-footed  creatures 
of  Thoreau's  must  have  suffered  terribly  during  the  night. 
He  noticed  that  at  the  foot  of  each  tree  to  which  a  dog 
was  attached  there  was  a  round,  smooth  depression  in  the 
snow,  where  the  animal  had  slept.  The  next  few  minutes 
added  to  his  conviction  that  the  Frenchman  and  the  Mis- 
sioner  were  heartless  masters,  though  open-handed  hosts. 
Mukoki  and  another  Indian  had  come  up  with  two  gunny 

66 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      67 

sacks,  and  from  one  of  these  a  bushel  of  fish  was  emptied 
out  upon  the  snow.  They  were  frozen  stiff,  so  that  Mu- 
koki  had  to  separate  them  with  his  belt-axe;  David  fancied 
they  must  be  hard  as  rock.  Thoreau  proceeded  to  toss 
these  fish  to  the  dogs,  one  at  a  time,  and  one  to  each  dog. 
The  watchful  and  apparently  famished  beasts  caught 
the  fish  in  mid-air,  and  there  followed  a  snarUng  and  grind- 
ing of  teeth  and  smashing  of  bones  and  frozen  flesh  that 
made  David  shiver.  He  was  half  disgusted.  Thoreau 
might  at  least  have  boiled  the  fish,  or  thawed  them  out. 
A  fish  weighing  from  one  and  a  half  to  two  pounds  was  each 
dog's  allotment,  and  the  work — if  this  feeding  process 
could  be  called  work — ^was  done.  Father  Roland  watched 
the  dogs,  rubbing  his  hands  with  satisfaction.  Thoreau 
was  showing  his  big,  white  teeth,  as  if  proud  of  something. 

"Not  a  bad  tooth  among  them,  mon  Pbre,'*  he  said, 
"Not  one!" 

"Fine — ^fine — but  a  little  too  fat,  Thoreau.  You're 
feeding  them  too  well  for  dogs  out  of  the  traces,"  replied 
Father  Roland. 

David  gasped. 

"  Too  well  I "  he  exclaimed.  "  They're  half  starved,  and 
almost  frozen !  Look  at  the  poor  devils  swallow  those  fish, 
ice  and  all!  Why  don't  you  cook  the  fish?  Why  don't 
you  give  them  some  sort  of  shelter  to  sleep  in?  " 

Father  Roland  and  the  Frenchman  stared  at  him  as  if 
they  did  not  quite  catch  his  meaning.  Then  a  look  of 
comprehension  swept  over  the  Missioner's  face.  He 
chuckled,  the  chuckle  grew,  it  shook  his  body,  and  he 
laughed — ^laughed  until  the  forest  flung  back  the  echoes  of 
his  merriment,  and  even  the  leatheiy  faces  of  the  Indians 


es      THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

crinkled  in  sympathy.  David  could  see  no  reason  for  his 
levity.  He  looked  at  Thoreau.  His  host  was  grinning 
broadly. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  the  Little  Missioner  at  last. 
"Starved?  Cold?  Bml  their  fish?  Give  'em  beds  T 
He  stopped  himself  as  he  saw  a  flush  rising  in  David  s 
face.  "Forgive  me,  David,"  he  begged,  laying  a  hand  on 
the  other's  arm.  "You  can't  understand  how  funny 
that  was — ^what  you  said.  K  you  gave  those  fellows  the 
warmest  kennels  in  New  York  City,  lined  with  bear  skins, 
they  wouldn't  sleep  in  them,  but  would  come  outside  and 
burrow  those  little  round  holes  in  the  snow.  That's 
their  nature.  I've  felt  sorry  for  them,  like  you — when  the 
thermometer  was  down  to  sixty.  But  it's  no  use.  As 
for  the  fish — ^they  want  'em  fresh  or  frozen.  I  suppose  you 
might -educate  them  to  eat  cooked  meat,  but  it  would  be 
like  making  over  a  lynx  or  a  fox  or  a  wolf.  They're  mighty 
comfortal)le,  those  dogs,  David.  That  bunch  of  eight 
over  there  is  mine.  They'll  take  us  north.  And  I  want 
to  warn  you,  don't  put  yourself  in  reach  of  them  until 
they  get  acquainted  with  you.  They're  not  pets,  you 
know;  I  guess  they'd  appreciate  petting  just  about  as 
touch  as  they  would  bodied  fish,  or  poison.  There's 
nothing  on  earth  Uke  a  husky  or  an  Eskimo  dog  when  it 
comes  to  lookin'  you  in  the  eye  with  a  friendly  and  lovable 
look  and  snapping  your  hand  off  at  the  same  time.  But 
you'll  Uke  'em,  David.  You  can't  help  feeling  they're 
pretty  good  comrades  when  you  see  what  they  do  in  the 
traces." 

Thoreau  had  shouldered  the  second  gunny  sack  and  now 
led  the  way  into  the  thicker  spruce  and  balsam  behind  the 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE      69 

"abin.  David  and  Father  RolaHd  followed,  the  latter  ex- 
plaining more  fully  why  it  was  necessary  to  keep  the 
sledge  dogs  "hard  as  rocks,"  and  how  the  trick  was  done. 
He  was  still  talking,  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand  closed 
about  the  little  plush  box  in  his  pocket,  when  they  came  to 
the  first  of  the  fox  pens.  He  was  watching  David  closely, 
a  little  anxiously — ^thrilled  by  the  touch  of  that  box.  He 
read  men  as  he  read  books,  seeing  much  that  was  not  in 
print,  and  feeling  by  a  wonderful  intuitive  power  emotions 
not  visible  in  a  face,  and  he  believed  that  in  David  there 
were  strange  and  conflicting  forces  struggling  now  for 
mastery.  It  was  not  in  the  surrender  of  the  box  that  he 
had  felt  David's  triumph,  but  in  the  voluntary  sacrifice 
of  what  that  box  contained.  He  wanted  to  rid  himself 
of  the  picture,  and  quickly.  He  was  filled  with  apprehen- 
sion lest  David  should  weaken  again,  and  ask  for  its  return. 
The  locket  meant  nothing.  It  was  a  bauble — cold,  emo- 
tionless, easily  forgotten;  but  the  other — the  picture  of 
the  woman  who  had  almost  destroyed  him — was  a  deadly 
menace,  a  poison  to  David's  soul  and  body  as  long  as  it 
remained  in  his  possession,  and  the  Little  Missioner's 
fingers  itched  to  tear  it  from  the  velvet  casket  and  destroy 
it. 

He  watched  his  opportimity.  As  Thoreau  tossed  three 
fish  over  the  high  wire  netting  of  the  first  pen  the  French- 
man was  explaining  to  David  why  there  were  two  female 
foxes  and  one  male  in  each  of  his  nine  pens,  and  why  warm 
houses  partly  covered  with  earth  were  necessary  for  their 
comfort  and  health,  while  the  sledge  dogs  required  nothing 
more  than  a  bed  of  snow.  Father  Roland  seized  this  op- 
r  Drtunity  to  drop  back  toward  the  cabin,  calling  in  Cree 


70      THE  COURAGE  OF  jVIARGE  O'DOONE 

to  Mukoki.  Five  seconds  after  the  cabin  concealed  him 
from  David  he  had  the  plush  box  out  of  his  pocket; 
another  five  and  he  had  opened  it  and  the  locket  itself  was 
in  his  hand.  And  then,  his  breath  coming  in  a  sudden, 
hissing  spurt  between  his  teeth,  he  was  looking  upon  the 
face  of  the  woman.  Again  in  Cree  he  spoke  to  Mukoki, 
asking  him  for  his  knife.  The  Indian  drew  it  from  his 
sheath  and  watched  in  silence  whUe  Father  Roland  ac- 
complished his  work  of  destruction.  The  Missioner's 
teeth  were  set  tight.  There  was  a  strange  gleam  of  fire  in 
his  eyes.  An  unspoken  malediction  rose  out  of  his  soul. 
The  work  was  done !  He  wanted  to  hi^l  the  yellow  trinket, 
shaped  so  sacrilegiously  in  the  image  of  a  heart,  as  far  as 
he  could  fling  it  into  the  forest.  It  seemed  to  bum  his 
fingers,  and  he  held  for  it  a  personal  hatred.  But  it  was 
for  Marie !  Marie  would  prize  it,  and  Marie  would  purify 
it.  Against  her  breast,  where  beat  a  heart  of  his  beloved 
Northland,  it  would  cease  to  be  a  polluted  thing.  This 
was  his  thought  as  he  replaced  it  in  the  casket  and  retraced 
his  steps  to  the  fox  pens. 

Thoreau  was  tossing  fish  into  the  last  pen  when  Father 
Roland  came  up.  David  was  not  with  him.  In  answer  to 
the  Missioner's  inquiry  he  nodded  toward  the  thicker 
growth  of  the  forest  where  as  yet  his  axe  had  not  scarred 
the  trees. 

"He  said  that  he  would  walk  a  little  distance  into  the 
timber." 

Father  Roland  muttered  something  that  Thoreau  did 
not  catch,  and  then,  a  sudden  brightness  lighting  up  his 
eyes: 

**I  am  going  to  leave  you  to-day." 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       71 

"To-day,  mon  Pere!*'  Thoreau  made  a  muffled  ex- 
clamation of  astonishment.  "To-day?  And  it  is  fairly 
well  along  toward  noon!" 

"He  cannot  travel  far."  The  Missioner  nodded  in  the 
direction  of  the  mithinned  timber.  "It  will  give  us  four 
hours,  between  noon  and  dark.  He  is  soft.  You  under- 
stand? We  will  make  as  far  as  the  old  trapping  sback  you 
abandoned  two  winters  ago  over  on  Moose  Creek.  It  is 
only  eight  miles,  but  it  will  be  a  bit  of  hardening  for  him. 
And,  besides     .     .     ." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  turning  a  matter  over 
again  in  his  own  mind. 

"I  want  to  get  him  away." 

He  turned  a  searching,  quietly  analytic  gaze  upon  Tho- 
reau to  see  whether  the  Frenchman  would  understand 
without  further  explanation. 

The  fox  breeder  picked  up  the  empty  gunny  sack. 

"We  will  begin  to  pack  the  sledge,  mon  Phre.  There 
must  be  a  good  hundred  pounds  to  the  dog." 

As  they  turned  back  to  the  cabin  Father  Roland  cast  a 
look  over  his  shoulder  to  see  whether  David  was  returning. 

Three  or  four  himdred  yards  in  the  forest  David  stood 
in  a  mute  and  increasing  wonder.  He  was  in  a  tiny  open, 
and  about  him  the  spruce  and  balsam  hung  still  as  death 
under  their  heavy  cloaks  of  freshly  fallen  snow.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  entered  unexpectedly  into  a  wonderland  of 
amazing  beauty,  and  that  from  its  dark  and  hidden  bowers, 
trusted  with  their  glittering  mantles  of  white,  snow  naiads 
must  be  peeping  forth  at  him,  holding  their  breath  for 
fear  of  betraying  themselves  to  his  eyes.  There  was  not 
the  chirp  of  a  bird  nor  the  flutter  of  a  wing — ^not  the 


72      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

breath  of  a  sound  to  disturb  the  wonderful  silence.  He 
was  encompassed  in  a  white,  soft  world  that  seemed 
tremendously  unreal — that  for  some  strange  reason  made 
him  breathe  very  softly,  that  made  him  stand  without  a 
movement,  and  made  him  listen,  as  though  he  had  come 
to  the  edge  of  the  universe  and  that  there  were  mysterious 
things  to  hear,  and  possibly  to  see,  if  he  remained  very 
quiet.  It  was  the  first  sensation  of  its  kind  he  had  ever 
experienced;  it  was  disquieting,  and  yet  soothing;  it 
filled  him  with  an  indefinable  uneasiness,  and  yet  with  a 
strange  yearning.  He  stood,  in  these  moments,  at  the 
inscrutable  threshold  of  the  great  North ;  he  felt  the  enigmat- 
ical, voiceless  spirit  of  it;  it  passed  into  his  blood;  it  made 
his  heart  beat  a  little  faster;  it  made  him  afraid,  and  yet 
daring.  In  his  breast  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  waking — 
had  awakened;  he  felt  the  call  of  the  Northland,  and  it 
alarmed  even  as  it  thrilled  him.  He  knew,  now,  that  this 
was  the  beginning — ^the  door  opening  to  him — of  a  world 
that  reached  for  hundreds  of  miles  up  there.  Yes,  there 
were  thousands  of  miles  of  it,  many  thousands;  white,  as 
he  saw  it  here;  beautiful,  terrible,  and  deathly  still.  And 
mto  this  world  Father  Roland  had  asked  him  to  go,  and 
he  had  as  good  as  pledged  himself! 

Before  he  could  think,  or  stop  himself,  he  iiad  laughed. 
For  an  instant  it  struck  him  like  mirth  in  a  tomb,  an 
impleasant,  soulless  sort  of  mirth,  for  his  laugh  had  in  it  a 
jarring  incredulity,  a  mocking  lack  of  faith  in  himself. 
What  right  had  he  to  enter  into  a  world  like  that?  Why, 
even  now,  his  legs  ached  because  of  his  exertion  in  furrow- 
ing through  a  few  hundred  steps  of  foot-and-a-half  snow! 

But  the  laugh  succeeded  in  bringing  him  back  into  the 


THE  COURAGE  OF  I^IABGE  O'DOONE      73 

reality  of  things.  He  started  at  right  aiig^les,  pushed  into 
the  maze  of  white-robed  spruce  and  balsam,  and  turned 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  cabin  over  a  new  trail.  He 
was  not  in  a  good  humour.  There  possessed  him  an  in- 
growing and  acute  feeUng  of  animosity  toward  himself. 
Since  the  day — or  night — fate  had  drawn  that  great, 
black  curtain  over  his  life,  shutting  out  his  sun,  he  had 
been  drifting;  he  had  been  floating  along  on  currents  of  the 
least  resistance,  making  no  fight,  and,  in  the  completeness 
of  his  grief  and  despair,  allowing  himself  to  disintegrate 
physically  as  well  as  mentally.  He  had  sorrowed  with 
himself;  he  had  told  himself  that  everything  worth  having 
was  gone;  but  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  cursed  himself. 
To-day — ^these  few  hundred  yards  out  in  the  snow — had 
come  as  a  test.  They  had  proved  his  weakness.  He  had 
degenerated  into  less  than  a  man!    He  was    .     .     . 

He  clenched  his  hands  inside  his  thick  mittens,  and  a 
rage  burned  within  him  like  a  fire.  Go  with  Father 
Roland?  Go  up  into  that  world  where  he  knew  that  the 
one  great  law  of  life  was  the  survival  of  the  fittest?  Yes, 
he  would  go  I  This  body  and  brain  of  his  needed  their 
punishment — and  they  should  have  it!  He  would  go. 
And  his  body  would  fight  for  it,  or  die.  The  thought  gave 
him  an  atrocious  satisfaction.  He  was  filled  with  a  sudden 
ccoitempt  for  himself.  If  Father  Roland  had  known,  he 
would  have  uttered  a  paean  of  joy. 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  humour  into  which  he  had 
fallen,  David  was  suddenly  flung  by  a  low  and  ferocious 
growl.  He  had  stepped  around  a  young  balsam  that  stood 
like  a  seven-foot  ghost  in  his  path,  and  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  a  beast  that  was  cringing  at  the  butt  of  a  thick 


74      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

spruce.  It  was  a  dog.  The  animal  was  not  more  than 
fom*  or  five  short  paces  from  him,  and  was  chained  to  the 
tree.  David  surveyed  him  with  sudden  interest,  won- 
dering first  of  all  why  he  was  larger  than  the  other  dogs. 
As  he  lay  crouched  there  against  his  tree,  his  ivory  fangs 
gleaming  between  half-uplifted  lips,  he  looked  like  a 
great  wolf.  In  the  other  dogs  David  had  witnessed  an 
avaricious  excitement  at  the  approach  of  men,  a  hungry 
demand  for  food,  a  straining  at  leash  ends,  a  whining  and 
snarling  comradeship.  Here  he  saw  none  of  those  things. 
The  big,  wolf -like  beast  made  no  sound  after  that  first 
growl,  and  made  no  movement.  And  yet  every  muscle 
in  his  body  seemed  gathered  in  a  tense  readiness  to  spring, 
and  his  gleaming  fangs  threatened.  He  was  ferocious, 
and  yet  shrinking;  ready  to  leap,  and  yet  afraid.  He  was 
like  a  thing  at  bay — a.  hunted  creature  that  had  been 
prisoned.  And  then  David  noticed  that  he  had  but  one 
good  eye.  It  was  bloodshot,  balefully  alert,  and  fixed  on 
him  like  a  round  ball  of  fire.  The  lids  had  closed  over  his 
other  eye;  they  were  swollen;  there  was  a  big  lump  just 
over  where  the  eye  should  have  been.  Then  he  saw  that 
the  beast's  lips  were  cut  and  bleeding.  There  was  blood 
on  the  snow;  and  suddenly  the  big  brute  covered  his  fangs 
to  give  a  racldng  cough,  as  though  he  had  swallowed  a 
sharp  fish-bone,  and  fresh  blood  dripped  out  of  his 
mouth  on  the  snow  between  his  forepaws.  One  of  these 
forepaws  was  twisted;  it  had  been  broken. 

"You  poor  devil!"  said  David  aloud. 

He  sat  down  on  a  birch  log  within  six  feet  of  the  end  of 
the  chain,  and  looked  steadily  into  the  big  husky's  one 
bloodshot  eye  as  he  said  again: 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       75 

"You  poor  devil!" 

Baree,  the  dog,  did  not  understand.  It  puzzled  him 
that  this  man  did  not  carry  a  club.  He  was  used  to  clubs. 
So  far  back  as  he  could  remember  the  club  had  been  the 
one  dominant  thing  in  his  life.  It  was  a  club  that  had 
closed  his  eye.  It  was  a  club  that  had  broken  one  of  his 
teeth  and  cut  his  Ups,  and  it  was  a  club  that  had  beat 
against  his  ribs  until — now — the  blood  came  up  into  his 
throat  and  choked  him,  and  dripped  out  of  his  mouth. 
But  this  man  had  no  club,  and  he  looked  friendly. 

"You  poor  devil!"  said  David  for  the  third  time. 

Then  he  added,  dark  indignation  in  his  voice : 

"What,  in  God's  name,  has  Thoreau  been  doing  to 
you.?" 

There  was  something  sickening  in  the  spectacle — that 
battered,  bleeding,  broken  creature  huddling  there  against 
the  tree,  coughing  up  the  red  stuff  that  discolom^d  the 
snow.  Loving  dogs,  he  was  not  afraid  of  them,  and 
forgetting  Father  Roland's  warning  he  rose  from  the  log 
and  went  nearer.  From  where  he  stood,  looking  down, 
Baree  could  have  reached  his  throat.  But  he  made  no 
movement,  unless  it  was  that  his  thickly  haired  body  was 
trembling  a  little.  His  one  red  eye  looked  steadily  up  at 
David. 

For  the  fourth  time  David  spoke; 

"You  poor,  God-forsaken  brute!" 

There  was  friendliness,  compassion,  wonderment  in  his 
voice,  and  he  held  down  a  hand  that  he  had  drawn  from 
one  of  the  thick  mittens.  Another  moment  and  he  would 
have  bent  over,  but  a  cry  stopped  him  so  sharply  and  sud- 
denly that  he  jumped  back. 


76      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Tboreau  stood  within  ten  feet  of  him,  horrified.  He 
clutched  a  rifle  in  one  hand. 

"Back — ^back,  m*sieu]"  he  cried  sharply.  "For  the 
love  of  God,  jump  back.'* 

He  swung  his  rifle  into  the  crook  of  his  arm.  David  did 
not  move,  and  from  Thoreau  he  looked  down  coolly  at  the 
dog.  Baree  was  a  changed  beast.  His  one  eye  was 
fastened  upon  the  fox  breeder.  His  bared,  bleeding  hps 
revealed  inch-long  fangs  between  which  there  came  now  a 
low  and  menacing  snarl.  The  tawny  crest  along  his  spine 
was  like  a  brush;  from  a  puzzled  toleration  of  David  his 
posture  and  look  had  changed  into  deadly  hatred  for 
Thoreau,  and  fear  of  him.  For  a  moment  after  his  first 
warning  the  Frenchman's  voice  seemed  to  stick  in  his 
throat  as  he  saw  what  he  beHeved  to  be  David's  fatal  dis- 
regard of  his  peril.  He  did  not  speak  to  him  again.  His 
eyes  were  on  the  dog.  Slowly  he  raised  his  rifle;  David 
heard  the  cUck  of  the  hammer — and  Baree  heard  it. 
There  was  something  in  the  sharp,  metallic  thrill  of  it  that 
stirred  his  brute  instinct.  His  lips  fell  over  his  fangs,  he 
whined,  and  then,  on  his  belly,  he  dragged  himself  slowly 
toward  David! 

It  was  a  miracle  that  Thoreau  the  Frenchman  looked 
upon  then.  He  would  have  staked  his  very  soul — ^wag- 
ered his  hopes  of  paradise  against  a  bahicke  thread — that 
what  he  saw  could  never  have  happened  between  Baree 
a»d  man.  In  utter  amazement  he  lowered  his  gun. 
David,  looking  down,  was  smiling  into  that  one,  wide-open, 
bloodshot  eye  of  Baree's,  his  hand  reaching  out.  Foot  by 
foot  Baree  slunk  to  him  on  his  belly,  and  when  at  last  he 
was  at  David's  feet  ne  faced  Thoreau  again,  his  terrible 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      77 

teeth  snarling,  a  low,  rumbling  growl  in  his  throat.  David 
reached  down  and  touched  him,  even  as  he  heard  the  fox 
breeder  make  an  incoherent  sound  in  his  beard.  At  the 
caress  of  his  hand  a  great  shudder  passed  through  Baree's 
body,  as  if  he  had  been  stung.  That  touch  was  the  con- 
necting link  through  which  passed  the  electrifying  thrill  of 
a  man's  soul  reaching  out  to  a  brute  instinct. 

Baree  had  found  a  man  friend ! 

When  David  stepped  away  from  him  to  Thoreau's  side 
as  much  of  the  Frenchman's  face  as  was  not  hidden  under 
his  beard  was  of  a  curious  ashen  pallor.  He  seemed  to 
make  a  struggle  before  he  could  get  his  voice. 

And  then:  "M'sieu,  I  tell  you  it  is  incredible!  I  cannot 
believe  what  I  have  seen.     It  was  a  miracle ! " 

He  shuddered*  David  was  looking  at  him,  a  bit  puzzled 
He  could  not  quite  comprehend  the  fear  that  had  pos- 
sessed him.  Thoreau  saw  this,  and  pointing  to  Baree— 
a  gesture  that  brought  a  snarl  from  the  beast — he  said: 

"He  is  bad,  m'sieu,  badl  He  is  the  worst  dog  in  all  this 
country.  He  was  bom  an  outcast — among  the  wolves — > 
and  his  heart  is  filled  with  murder.  He  is  a  quarter  wolf, 
and  you  can't  club  it  out  of  him.  Half  a  dozen  masters 
have  owned  him,  and  none  of  them  has  been  able  to  club 
it  out  of  him.  I,  myself,  have  beaten  him  until  he  lay  as 
if  dead,  but  it  did  no  good.  He  has  killed  two  of  my  dogs. 
He  has  leaped  at  my  throat.  I  am  afraid  of  him.  I 
chained  him  to  that  tree  a  month  ago  to  keep  him  away 
from  the  other  dogs,  and  since  then  I  have  not  been  able 
to  unleash  him.  He  would  tear  me  into  pieces.  Yester- 
day I  beat  him  until  he  was  almost  dead,  and  still  he  was 
ready  to  go  at  my  throat.    So  I  am  determined  to  kill  him. 


78      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

He  is  no  good.  Step  a  little  aside,  m'sieu,  while  I  put  a 
bullet  through  his  head!" 

He  raised  his  rifle  again.     David  put  a  hand  on  it. 

"I  can  unleash  him,"  he  said. 

Before  the  other  could  speak,  he  had  walked  boldly  to 
the  tree.  Baree  did  not  turn  his  head — did  not  for  an 
instant  take  his  eye  from  Thoreau.  There  came  the  click 
of  the  snap  that  fastened  the  chain  around  the  body  of  the 
spruce,  and  David  stood  with  the  loose  end  of  the  chain  in 
his  hand. 

"There!" 

He  laughed  a  little  proudly. 

"And  I  didn't  use  a  club,"  he  added. 

Thoreau  gasped  "Mon  Dieu!'*  and  sat  down  on  the 
birch  log  as  though  the  strength  had  gone  from  his  legs. 

David  rattled  the  chain  and  then  re-fastened  it  about 
the  spruce.  Baree  was  still  watching  Thoreau,  who  sat 
staring  at  "him  as  if  the  beast  had  suddenly  changed  his 
shape  and  species. 

In  David's  breast  there  was  the  thrill  of  a  new  triumph. 
He  had  done  it  unconsciously,  without  fear,  and  without 
feeling  that  there  had  been  any  great  danger.  In  those 
few  minutes  something  of  his  old  self  had  returned  into 
him;  he  felt  a  new  excitement  pumping  the  blood  through 
his  heart,  and  he  felt  the  warm  glow  of  it  in  his  body. 
Baree  had  awakened  something  within  him — ^Baree  and 
the  club.  He  went  to  Thoreau,  who  had  risen  from  the 
log.     He  laughed  again,  a  bit  exultantly. 

"  I  am  going  north  with  Father  Roland,"  he  said.  **  Will 
you  let  me  have  the  dog,  Thoreau?  It  will  save  you  the 
trouble  of  killing  him." 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       79 

Thoreau  stared  at  him  blankly  for  a  moment  before  he 
answered. 

"That  dog?  You?  Into  the  North? "  He  shot  a  look 
full  of  hatred  and  disgust  at  Baree.  "Would  you  risk  it, 
msieur 

"Yes.  It  is  an  adventure  I  would  very  much  like  to 
try.  You  may  think  it  strange,  Thoreau,  but  that  dog — 
ugly  and  fierce  as  he  is — ^has  found  a  place  with  me.  I  like 
him.     And  I  fancy  he  has  begun  to  like  me." 

"But  look  at  his  eye,  m'sieu '* 

"Which  eye?"  demanded  David.  "The  one  you  have 
shut  with  a  dub?" 

"He  deserved  it,"  muttered  Thoreau.  "He  snapped  at 
my  hand.  But  I  mean  the  other  eye,  m'sieu — ^the  one  that 
is  glaring  at  us  now  like  a  red  bloodstone  with  the  heart  of 
a  devil  in  it !    I  tell  you  he  is  a  quarter  wolf    .     .     . " 

"And  the  broken  paw.  I  suppose  that  was  done  by  a 
club,  too?"  interrupted  Da-vid. 

"It  was  broken  like  that  when  I  traded  for  him  a  year 
ago,  m*sieu.  I  have  not  maimed  him.  And  .  .  . 
yes,  you  may  have  the  beast!  May  the  saints  preserve 
you!" 

"And  his  name?" 

"The  Indian  who  owned  him  as  a  puppy  five  years  ago 
called  him  Baree,  which  among  the  Dog  Ribs  means  W;ld 
Blood.    He  should  have  been  caKed  The  Devil." 

Thoreau  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  though  the  matter 
and  its  consequences  were  now  oflP  his  hands,  and  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  cabin.  As  he  followed  the  French- 
man, David  looked  back  at  Baree.  The  big  husky  had 
risen  from  the  snow.     He  was  standing  at  the  full  length 


80      THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

^  his  chain,  and  as  David  disappeared  among  the  spruce 
a  low  whine  that  was  filled  with  a  strange  yearning  fol- 
lowed him.  He  did  not  hear  the  whine,  but  there  came  to 
him  distinctly  a  moment  later  the  dog's  racking  cough, 
and  he  shivered,  and  his  eyes  burned  into  Thoreau's 
broad  back  as  he  thought  of  the  fresh  blood-clots  that  were 
staining  the  white  snow. 


CHAPTER  Vm 

MUCH  to  Thoreau's  amazement  Fatl^r  Roland 
made  no  objection  to  David's  ownership  of 
Baree,  and  when  the  Frenchman  described  with 
many  gesticulations  of  wonder  what  had  happened  between 
that  devil-dog  and  the  man,  he  was  still  more  puzzled  by 
the  look  of  satisfaction  in  the  Little  Missioner's  face.  In 
David  there  had  come  the  sudden  awakening  of  something 
which  had  for  a  long  time  been  dormant  within  him,  and 
Father  Roland  saw  this  change,  and  felt  it,  even  before 
David  said,  when  Thoreau  had  turned  away  with  a  darkly 
suggestive  shrug  <rf  his  shoulders : 

"That  poor  devil  of  a  beast  is  down  and  out,  mon  Pere. 
I  have  never  been  so  bad  as  that;  never.  Kill  him?  Bah! 
If  this  magical  north  country  of  yours  will  make  a  man 
out  of  a  human  dereHct  it  will  surely  work  some  sort  of  a 
transformation  in  a  dog  that  has  been  clubbed  into  iin- 
beciHty.    Will  it  not?" 

It  was  not  the  David  of  yesterday  or  the  day  before  that 
was  speaking.  There  was  a  passion  in  his  voice,  a  deep 
contempt,  a  half  taimt,  a  tremble  of  anger.  There  wai>  a 
flush  in  his  cheeks,  too,  and  a  spark  of  fire  in  his  eyes.  In 
his  heart  Father  Roland  whispered  to  himself  that  this 
change  in  David  was  like  a  conflagration,  and  he  rejoiced 
without  speaking,  fearing  that  words  might  quench  the 
pflFect  of  it. 

81 


82      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

David  was  looking  at  him  as  if  he  expected  an  answer, 

"What  an  accursed  fool  a  man  is  to  waste  his  soul  and 
voice  in  lamentation — especially  his  voice,"  he  went  on 
harshly,  his  teeth  gleaming  for  an  instant  in  a  bitter  smile. 
"One  ought  to  act  and  not  whine.  That  beast  back  there 
is  ready  to  act.  He  would  tear  Thoreau's  jugular  out  if 
he  had  half  a  chance.  And  I  .  .  .  why,  I  sneaked  o£F 
like  a  whipped  cur.  That's  why  Baree  is  better  than  I 
am,  even  though  he  is  nothing  more  than  a  four-footed 
brute.  In  that  room  I  should  have  had  the  moral  courage 
that  Baree  has;  I  should  have  killed — Skilled  them  both!" 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  am  quite  convinced  that 
it  would  have  been  justice,  mon  Pere,  What  do  you 
think.?" 

The  Missioner  smiled  enigmatically. 

"The  soul  of  many  a  man  has  gone  from  behind  steel 
bars  to  heaven  or  I  vastly  miss  my  guess,"  he  said.  "But 
— ^we  don't  Uke  the  thought  of  steel  bars,  do  we,  David? 
Man-made  laws  and  justice  don't  always  run  tandem. 
But  God  evens  things  up  in  the  final  balance.  You'll 
live  to  see  that.  He's  back  there  now,  meting  out  your 
vengeance  to  them.  Your  vengeance.  Do  you  under- 
stand? And  you  won't  be  called  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
business."  Suddenly  he  pointed  toward  the  cabin,  where 
Thoreau  and  Mukoki  were  already  at  work  packing  a 
sledge.  "It's  a  glorious  day.  We  start  right  after  dinner. 
Let  us  get  your  things  in  a  bimdle." 

David  made  no  answer,  but  three  minutes  later  he  was 
on  his  knees  unlocking  his  trimk,  with  Father  Roland 
standing  close  beside  him.  Something  of  the  humour  of 
the  situation  possessed  him  as  he  flung  out,  one  by  one. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE       83 

the  various  articles  of  his  worthless  apparel,  and  when  he 
had  all  but  finished  he  looked  up  into  the  Missioner's  face. 
Father  Roland  was  staring  into  the  trunk,  an  expression 
of  great  surprise  in  his  countenance  which  slowly  changed 
to  one  of  eager  joy.  He  made  a  sudden  dive,  and  stood 
back  with  a  pair  of  boxing  gloves  in  his  hands.  From  the 
gloves  he  looked  at  David,  and  then  back  at  the  gloves, 
fondhng  them  as  if  they  had  been  ahve,  his  hands  almost 
trembling  at  the  smooth  touch  of  them,  his  eyes  glowing 
like  the  eyes  of  a  child  that  had  come  into  possession  of  a 
wonderful  toy.  David  reached  into  the  trunk  and  pro- 
duced a  second  pair.     The  Missioner  seized  upon  them. 

"Dear  Heaven,  what  a  gift  from  the  gods!"  he  chortled. 
"David,  you  will  teach  me  to  use  them?"  There  was 
almost  anxiety  in  his  manner  as  he  added,  "You  know  how 
to  use  them  well,  David?" 

"My  chief  pastime  at  home  was  boxing,"  assured 
David.  There  was  a  touch  of  pride  in  his  voice.  "It  is  a 
scientific  recreation.  I  loved  it — that,  and  swimming. 
Yes,  I  will  teach  you." 

Father  Roland  went  out  of  the  room  a  moment  later, 
chuclding  mysteriously,  with  the  four  gloves  hugged 
against  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

David  followed  a  little  later,  all  his  belongings  in  one  of 
the  leather  bags.  For  some  time  he  had  hesitated  over 
the  portrait  of  the  Girl;  twice  he  had  shut  the  lock  on  it; 
the  third  time  he  placed  it  in  the  big,  breast  pocket  inside 
the  coat  Father  Roland  had  provided  for  him,  making  a 
mental  apology  for  that  act  by  assuring  himself  that  sooner 
or  later  he  would  show  the  picture  to  the  Missioner,  so 
would  want  it  near  at  hand.     Father  Roland  had  disposed 


84      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE 

of  the  gloves,  and  introduced  David  to  the  rest  of  his 
equipment  when  he  came  from  the  cabin.  It  was  very 
business-like,  this  accoutrement  that  was  to  be  the  final 
physical  touch  to  his  transition;  it  did  not  allow  of  skep- 
ticism; about  it  there  was  also  a  quiet  and  cold  touch  of 
romance.  The  rifle  chilled  David's  bare  fingers  when  he 
touched  it.  It  was  short-barrelled,  but  heavy  in  the 
breech,  with  an  tf^pearance  of  indubitable  efficiency  about 
it.  It  looked  like  an  honest  weapon  to  David,  who  was 
unaccustomed  to  firearms — ^and  this  was  more  than  he 
could  say  for  the  heavy,  38-caUbre  automatic  pistol  which 
Father  Roland  thrust  into  his  hand,  and  which  looked  and 
felt  murderously  mysterious.  He  frankly  confessed  his 
ignorance  of  these  things,  and  the  Missioner  chuckled  good- 
humouredly  as  he  buckled  the  belt  and  holster  about  his 
waist  and  told  him  on  which  hip  to  keep  the  pistol,  and 
where  to  carry  the  leather  sheath  that  held  a  long  and 
keen-edged  hunting  knife.  Then  he  turned  to  the  snow 
shoes.  They  were  the  long,  narrow,  bush-country  shoe. 
He  placed  them  side  by  side  on  the  snow  and  showed 
David  how  to  fasten  his  moccasined  feet  in  them  without 
using  his  hands.  For  three  quarters  of  an  hoiur  after  that, 
out  in  the  soft,  deep  snow  in  the  edge  of  the  spruce,  he 
gave  him  his  first  lesson  in  that  slow,  swinging,  m^i-stepping 
stride  of  the  north-man  on  the  trail.  At  first  it  was  em- 
barrassing for  David,  with  Thoreau  and  the  Indians 
grinning  openly,  and  Marie's  face  peering  cautiously  and 
joyously  from  the  cabin  door.  Three  times  he  entangled 
his  feet  hopelessly  and  floundered  Hke  a  great  fish  in  the 
snow;  then  he  caught  the  "swing"  of  it  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  began  to  find  a  pleasurable  exhilaration,  even 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      85 

excitement,  in  his  ability  to  skim  over  the  feathery  surface 
of  this  great  white  sea  without  so  much  as  sinking  to  his 
ankle  bones.  When  he  slipped  the  shoes  ojff  and  stood 
them  up  beside  his  rifle  against  the  cabin,  he  was  panting. 
His  heart  was  pounding.  His  lungs  drank  in  the  cold, 
balsam-scented  air  Hke  a  suction  pump  and  expelled  each 
breath  with  the  sibilancy  of  steam  escaping  from  a  valve. 

"Winded!"  he  gasped.  And  then,  gulping  for  breath 
as  he  looked  at  Father  Roland,  he  demanded:  "How  the 
devil  am  I  going  to  keep  up  with  you  fellows  on  the  trail? 
m  go  bust  inside  of  a  mile!" 

"And  every  time  you  go  bust  we'll  load  you  on  the 
sledge,"  comforted  the  Mlssioner,  his  round  face  glowing 
with  enthusiastic  approval.  "You've  done  finely,  David. 
Within  a  fortnight  you'll  be  travelling  twenty  miles  a  day 
on  snow  shoes." 

He  suddenly  seemed  to  think  of  something  that  he  had 
f orgotteji  and  fidgeted  with  his  mittens  in  his  hesitation,  as 
if  theate  lay  an  ui[pleasant  duty  ahead  of  him.  Then  he 
said: 

"K  there  are  any  letters  to  write,  David  .  .  .  any 
business  matters    ..." 

"There  are  no  letters,"  cut  in  David  quickly.  "I 
attended  to  my  affairs  some  weeks  ago.     I  am  ready." 

With  a  frozen  whitefish  he  returned  to  Baree.  The  dog 
scented  him  before  the  crunch  of  his  footsteps  could  be 
heard  in  the  snow,  and  when  he  came  out  from  the  thick 
spruce  and  balsam  into  the  Uttle  open,  Baree  was  stretched 
out  flat  on  his  belly,  his  gaunt  gray  muzzle  resting  on  the 
snow  between  his  forepaws.  He  made  no  movement  as 
David  drew  near,  except  that  curious  shivers  ran  through 


86      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

his  body,  and  his  throat  twitched.  Thoreau  would  have 
analyzed  that  impassive  posture  as  one  of  waiting  and 
watchful  treachery;  David  saw  in  it  a  strange  yearning,  a 
deep  fear,  a  hope.  Baree,  outlawed  by  man,  battered  and 
bleeding  as  he  lay  there,  felt  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in 
his  life  the  thriUing  presence  of  a  friend — a  man  friend. 
David  approached  boldly,  and  stood  over  him.  He  had 
forgotten  the  Frenchman's  warning.  He  was  not  afraid. 
He  leaned  over  and  one  of  his  mittened  hands  touched 
Baree's  neck.  A  tremor  shot  through  thp  dog  that  was 
like  an  electric  shock;  a  snarl  gathered  in  his  throat,  broke 
down,  and  ended  in  a  low  whine.  He  lay  as  if  dead  under 
ihe  weight  of  David's  hand.  Not  imtil  David  had  ceased 
talking  to  him,  and  had  disappeared  once  more  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  cabin,  did  Baree  begin  devouring  the  frozen 
whitefish. 

Father  Roland  meditated  in  some  perplexity  when  it 
came  to  the  final  question  of  Baree. 

"We  can't  put  him  in  with  the  team,"  he  protested. 
**A11  my  dogs  would  be  dead  before  we  reached  God's 
Lake." 

David  had  been  thinking  of  that. 

"He  will  foUow  me,"  he  said  confidently.  "We'll 
simply  turn  him  loose  when  w^e're  ready  to  start." 

The  Missioner  nodded  indulgently.  Thoreau,  who  had 
overheard,  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously.  He 
hated  Baree,  the  beast  that  would  not  yield  to  a  club,  and 
he  muttered  gruffly: 

"And  to-night  he  will  join  the  wolves,  m'sieu,  and  prey 
like  the  very  devil  on  my  traps.  There  will  be  only  one 
cure  for  that — a  fox-bait! — ^poison!'* 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       87 

And  the  last  hour  seemed  to  prove  that  what  Thoreau 
had  said  was  true.  After  dinner  the  three  of  them  went 
to  Baree,  and  David  unfastened  the  chain  from  the  big 
husky's  collar.  For  a  few  moments  the  dog  did  not  seem 
to  sense  his  freedom;  then,  like  a  shot — so  unexpectedly 
that  he  almost  took  David  off  his  feet — ^he  leaped  over  the 
birch  log  and  disappeared  in  the  forest.  The  Frenchman 
was  amused. 

"The  wolves,"  he  reminded  softly.  "He  will  be  with 
them  to-night,  m*sieu — ^that  outlaw!" 

Not  until  the  crack  of  Mukoki's  long,  caribou-gut  whip 
had  set  the  Missioner's  eight  dogs  tense  and  alert  in  their 
traces  did  Father  Roland  return  for  a  moment  into  the 
cabin  to  give  Marie  the  locket.  He  came  back  quickly, 
and  at  a  signal  from  him  Mukoki  wound  up  the  9-foot  lash 
of  his  whip  and  set  out  ahead  of  the  dogs.  They  followed 
him  slowly  and  steadily,  keeping  the  broad  runners  of  the 
sledge  in  the  trail  he  made.  The  Missioner  dropped  in 
immediately  behind  the  sledge,  and  David  behind  him. 
Thoreau  spoke  a  last  word  to  David,  in  a  voice  intended  for 
his  ears  alone. 

"It  is  a  long  way  to  God's  Lake,  m'sijeu,  and  you  are 
going  with  a  strange  man — a  strange  man.  Some  day,  if 
you  have  not  forgotten  Pierre  Thoreau,  you  may  tell  me 
what  it  has  been  a  long  time  in  my  heart  to  know.  The 
saints  be  with  you,  m'sieu!" 

He  dropped  back.  His  voice  rolled  after  them  in  a  last 
farewell,  in  French,  and  in  Cree,  and  as  David  followed 
close  behind  the  Missioner  he  wondered  what  Thoreau's 
mysterious  words  had  meant,  and  why  he  had  not  spoken 
them  until  that  final  moment  of  their  departure.     "A 


8S      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

strange  man!  The  saints  be  with  you!"  That  last  had 
seemed  to  him  almost  a  warning.  He  looked  at  Father 
Roland's  broad  back;  for  the  first  time  he  noticed  how 
heavy  and  powerful  his  shoulders  were  for  his  height. 
Then  the  forest  swallowed  them — a  vast,  white,  engulfing 
world  of  silence  and  mystery.  What  did  it  hold  for  him? 
"What  did  it  portend?  His  blood  was  stirred  by  an  un- 
famihar  and  subdued  excitement.  An  almost  unconscious 
movement  carried  one  of  his  mittened  hands  to  his  breast 
pocket.  Through  the  thickness  of  his  coat  he  could  feel 
it — the  picture.  It  did  not  seem  like  a  dead  thing.  It 
beat  with  life.  It  made  him  strangely  unafraid  of  what 
might  be  ahead  of  him. 

Back  at  the  door  of  the  cabin  Thoreau  stood  with  one 
of  his  big  arms  encircling  Marie's  sHm  shoulders. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  hke  taking  the  life  of  a  puppy,  ma 
cheriey^  he  was  saying.  "It  is  inconceivable.  It  is 
bloodthirsty.    And  yet    .     .     ." 

He  opened  the  door  behind  them. 

"They  are  gone,"  he  finished.  "Xa  Sakhet — ^they  are 
gone — ^and  they  will  not  come  back!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  SPITE  of  the  portentous  significance  of  this  day 
in  his  life  David  could  not  help  seeing  and  feeUng  in 
his  suddenly  changed  environment,  as  he  puffed 
along  behind  Father  Roland,  something  that  was  neither 
adventure  nor  romance,  but  humour.  A  whimsical  hum- 
-^ur  at  first,  but  growing  grimmer  as  his  thoughts  sped. 
All  his  life  he  had  lived  in  a  great  dty,  he  had  been  a  part 
of  its  life — a  discordant  note  in  it,  and  yet  a  part  of  it  for 
all  that.  He  had  been  a  fixture  in  a  certain  lap  of  luxury. 
That  luxury  had  refined  him.  It  had  manicured  him  down 
to  a  fine  point  of  civiHzation.  A  fine  point!  He  wanted 
to  laugh,  but  he  had  need  cA  all  his  breath  as  he  clijhdip' 
clipped  on  his  snow  shoes  behind  the  Missic«ier.  This 
was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  he  had  dreamed  of,  all  this 
snow,  all  this  emptiness  that  loomed  up  ahead  of  him,  a 
great  world  filled  only  with  trees  and  winter.  He  dis- 
liked winter;  he  had  always  p)ossessed  a  physical  antipathy 
for  snow;  romance,  for  him,  was  environed  in  warm  climes 
and  sunny  seas.  He  had  made  a  mistake  in  telUng  Father 
Roland  that  he  was  going  to  British  Columbia — a.  ^eat 
mistake.  Undoubtedly  he  would  have  kept  on.  Japan 
had  been  in  his  mind.  And  now  here  he  was  headed 
straight  for  the  north  pole — the  Arctic  Ocean.  It  was 
enough  to  make  him  want  to  laugh.  Enough  to  make  any 
sane  person  laugh.    Even  now,  only  half  a  mile  from 


90      THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Thoreau's  cabin,  his  knees  were  beginning  to  ache  and  hia 
ankles  were  growing  heavy.  It  was  ridiculous.  Incon- 
ceivable, as  the  Frenchman  had  said  to  Marie.  He  was 
soft.  He  was  only  half  a  man.  How  long  would  he  last? 
How  long  before  he  would  have  to  cry  quits,  Hke  a  whipped 
boy?  How  long  before  his  legs  would  crumple  up  under 
him,  and  his  lungs  give  out?  How  long  before  Father 
Roland,  hiding  his  contempt,  would  have  to  send  him 
back? 

A  sense  of  shame — shame  and  anger — swept  through 
him,  heating  his  brain,  setting  his  teeth  hard,  fiUing  him 
again  with  a  grim  determination.  For  the  second  time 
that  day  his  fighting  blood  rose.  It  surged  through  his 
veins  in  a  flood,  beating  down  the  old  barriers,  clearing 
away  the  obstructions  of  his  doubts  and  his  fears,  and 
fiUing  him  with  the  desire  to  go  on — the  desire  to  fight  it 
out,  to  punish  himself  as  he  deserved  to  be  punished,  and 
to  win  in  the  end.  Father  Roland,  glancing  back  in 
benignant  solicitude,  saw  the  new  glow  in  David's  eyes. 
He  saw,  also,  his  parted  Hps  and  the  quickness  of  his 
breath.  With  a  sharp  command  he  stopped  Mukoki  and 
the  dogs. 

"Half  a  mile  at  a  time  is  enough  for  a  beginner,**  he 
s^d  to  David.  "Kick  off  your  shoes  and  ride  the  next 
half  mile.*' 

David  shook  his  head. 

"Go  on,*'  he  said,  tersely,  saving  his  wind.  "I'm  just 
finding  myself." 

Father  Roland  loaded  and  lighted  his  pipe.  The  aroma 
of  the  tobacco  filled  David's  nostrils  as  they  went  on. 
Clouds  of  smoke  wreathed  the  Little  Missioner's  shoulders 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       91 

as  he  followed  the  trail  ahead  of  him.  It  was  comforting, 
that  smoke.  It  warmed  David  with  a  fresh  desire.  His 
exertion  was  clearing  out  his  lungs.  He  was  inhaling 
balsam  and  spruce,  a  mighty  tonic  of  dry  forest  air,  and 
he  felt  also  the  craving  to  smoke.  But  he  knew  that  he 
could  not  afford  the  waste  of  breath.  His  snow  shoes 
were  growing  heavier  and  heavier,  and  back  of  his  knees 
the  tendons  seemed  preparing  to  snap.  He  kept  on,  at 
last  counting  his  steps.  He  was  determined  to  make  a 
mile.  He  was  ready  to  groan  when  a  sudden  twist  in  the 
trail  brought  them  out  of  the  forest  to  the  edge  of  a  lake 
whose  frozen  surface  stretched  ahead  of  them  for  miles» 
Mukoki  stopped  the  dogs.  With  a  gasp  David  floundered 
to  the  sledge  and  sat  down. 

"Finding  myself,"  he  managed  to  say.  "Just  — finding 
myself!" 

It  was  a  triumph  for  him — the  last  half  of  that  mile. 
He  knew  it.  He  felt  it.  Through  the  white  haze  of  his 
breath  he  looked  out  over  the  lake.  It  was  wonderfully 
clear,  and  the  sun  was  shining.  The  surface  of  the  lake 
was  like  an  untracked  carpet  of  white  sprinkled  thickly 
with  tiny  diamonds  where  the  sunlight  fell  on  its  countless 
billions  of  snow  crystals.  Three  or  four  miles  away  he 
could  see  the  dark  edge  of  the  forest  on  the  other  side. 
Up  and  down  the  lake  the  distance  was  greater.  He  had 
pever  seen  anything  like  it.  It  was  marvellous — like  a 
tlream  picture.  And  he  was  not  cold  as  he  looked  at  it. 
He  was  warm,  even  uncomfortably  warm.  The  air  he 
breathed  was  like  a  new  kind  of  fuel.  It  gave  him  the 
peculiar  sensation  of  feeling  larger  inside;  he  seemed  to 
drink  it  in;  it  expanded  his  lungs;  he  could  feel  his  heart 


92      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

pumping  with  an  audible  sound.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  majesty  and  wonder  of  the  scene  about  him  to  make 
him  laugh,  but  he  laughed.  It  was  exultation,  an  involun- 
tary outburst  of  the  change  that  was  working  within  him. 
He  felt,  suddenly,  that  a  dark  and  purposeless  world  had 
alipped  behind  him.  It  was  gone.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
come  out  of  a  dark  and  gloomy  cavern,  in  which  the  air 
had  been  vitiated  and  in  which  he  had  been  cramped  for 
breath — a  cavern  which  fluttered  with  the  uneasy  ghosts 
of  things,  fK>isonous  things.  Here  was  the  sun.  A  sky 
blue  as  sapphire.  A  great  expanse.  A  wonder-world. 
Into  this  he  had  escap)ed! 

That  was  the  thought  in  his  mind  as  he  looked  at  Fathet 
Roland.  The  Little  Missioner  was  looking  at  him  with  an 
effulgent  satisfaction  in  his  face,  a  satisfaction  that  was 
half  pride,  as  though  he  had  achieved  something  that  was 
to  his  own  personal  glory. 

"You've  beat  me,  David,"  he  exulted.  "The  first  time 
I  had  snow  shoes  on  I  didn't  make  one  half  that  distance 
before  I  was  tangled  up  like  a  fish  in  a  net!"  He  timied 
to  Mukoki.  ^*Meyoo  iss  e  chikao  /"  he  cried.  "Remem- 
ber? "  and  the  Indian  nodded,  his  leathery  face  breaking 
into  a  grin. 

David  felt  a  new  pleasure  at  their  approbation.  He  had 
evidently  done  well,  exceedingly  well.  And  he  had  been 
afraid  of  himself!  Apprehension  gave  way  to  confidence. 
He  was  beginning  to  experience  the  exquisite  thrill  oi 
fighting  against  odds. 

He  made  no  objection  this  time  when  Father  Roland 
made  a  place  for  him  on  the  sledge. 

"We'll  have  four  miles  of  this  lake/'  the  Missioner  ex- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      93 

plained  to  him,  "and  the  dogs  will  make  it  in  an  hour. 
Mukoki  and  I  will  both  break  trail." 

As  they  set  off  David  found  his  first  opportmiity  to  see 
the  real  Northland  in  action — the  clean,  sinuous  movement 
of  the  men  ahead  of  him,  the  splendid  eagerness  with 
which  the  long,  wdfish  line  of  beasts  stretched  forth  in 
their  traces  and  followed  in  the  snow-shoe  trail.  There 
was  something  imposing  about  it  all,  something  that 
struck  deep  within  him  and  roused  strange  thoughts. 
This  that  he  saw  was  not  the  mere  labour  of  man  and 
beast;  it  was  not  the  humdrum  toil  of  life,  not  the  daily 
slaving  of  Uving  creatures  for  existence — ^for  food,  and 
drink,  and  a  sleeping  place.  It  had  risen  above  that.  He 
had  seen  ships  and  castles  rise  up  from  heaps  of  steel  and 
stone;  achievements  of  science  and  the  handiwork  of 
genius  had  interested  and  sometimes  amazed  him,  but 
never  had  he  looked  upon  physical  effort  that  thrilled  him 
as  did  this  that  he  was  looking  upon  now.  There  was 
jdmost  the  spirit  of  the  epic  about  it.  They  were  the 
survival  of  the  fittest — these  men  and  dogs.  They  had 
gone  through  the  great  test  of  life  in  the  raw,  as  the 
pyramids  and  the  sphinx  had  outlived  the  ordeals  of  the 
centuries;  they  were  different;  they  were  proven;  they  were 
of  another  kind  of  flesh  and  blood  than  he  had  known — and 
they  fascinated  him.  They  stood  for  more  than  romance 
and  adventure,  for  more  than  tragedy  or  possible  joy; 
they  were  making  no  fight  for  riches — ^no  fight  for  power, 
or  fame,  or  great  personal  achievement.  Their  strug^e 
in  this  great,  white  world — terrible  in  its  emptiness,  its 
vastness,  and  its  mercilessness  for  the  weak — ^was  simply 
a  struggle  that  they  might  live. 


94       THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

The  thought  staggered  him.  Could  there  be  joy  in 
that — ^in  a  mere  existence  without  the  thousand  pleasures 
and  luxuries  and  excitements  that  he  had  known?  He 
drank  deeply  of  the  keen  air  as  he  asked  himself  the  ques- 
tion. His  eyes  rested  on  the  shaggy,  undulating  backs  of 
the  big  huskies;  he  noted  their  half-ojjen  jaws,  the  sharp 
alertness  of  their  pointed  ears,  the  almost  joyous  unction 
with  which  they  entered  into  their  task,  their  eagerness 
to  keep  their  load  close  upon  the  heels  of  their  masters. 
He  heard  Mukoki's  short,  sharp,  and  unnecessary  com- 
mands, his  hi-yi*s  and  his  ki-yi's,  as  though  he  were  crying 
out  for  no  other  reason  than  from  sheer  physical  exuber- 
ance. He  saw  Father  Roland's  face  timied  backward  for  a 
moment,  and  it  was  smiling.  They  were  happy — ^nowl 
Men  and  beasts  were  happy.  And  he  could  see  no  reason 
for  their  happiness  except  that  their  blood  was  pounding 
through  their  veins,  even  as  it  was  pounding  through  his 
own.  That  was  it — ^the  blood.  The  heart.  The  lungs.  Th« 
brain.  All  were  clear — clear  and  unfettered  in  that  marvel- 
lous air  and  sunlight,  washed  clean  by  the  swift  pulse  of  hfe. 
It  was  a  wonderful  world!  A  glorious  world!  He  was 
almost  on  the  point  of  crying  aloud  his  discovery. 

The  thrill  grew  in  him  as  he  found  time  now  to  look 
about.  Under  him  the  broad,  steel  runners  of  the 
sledge  made  a  cold,  creaking  sound  ss  they  slipped 
over  the  snow  that  lay  on  the  ice  of  the  lake;  he 
heard  the  swift  tap,  tap,  tap  of  the  dogs'  feet,  their 
panting  breath  that  was  almost  like  laughter,  low  throat 
whines,  and  the  steady  swish  of  the  snow  shoes  ahead. 
Beyond  those  sounds  a  vast  silence  encompassed  him. 
He  looked  out  into  it,  east  and  west  to  the  dark  rims  of 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       95 

forest,  north  and  south  over  the  distance  of  that  diamond- 
sprinkled  tundra  of  unbroken  white.  He  drew  out  his 
pipe,  loaded  it  with  tobacco,  and  began  to  smoke.  The 
bitterness  of  the  weed  was  gone.  It  was  dehcious.  He 
puffed  luxuriously.  And  then,  suddenly,  as  he  looked  at 
the  purplish  bulwarks  of  the  forest,  his  mind  swept  back. 
For  the  first  time  since  that  night  many  months  ago  he 
thought  of  the  Woman — the  Golden  Goddess — ^without  a 
red-Jiot  fire  in  his  brain.  He  thought  of  her  coolly.  This 
new  world  was  already  giving  back  to  him  a  power  of 
analysis,  a  p)erspective,  a  healthier  conception  of  truths 
and  measurements.  What  a  horrible  blot  they  had  made 
in  his  life — that  man  and  that  woman!  What  a  foul  trick 
they  had  played  him!  What  filth  they  had  wallowed  in! 
And  he — he  had  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  creature 
in  the  world,  an  angel,  a  thing  to  be  worshipped.  He 
laughed,  almost  without  sound,  his  teeth  biting  hard  on 
the  stem  of  his  pipe.  And  the  world  he  was  looking  upon 
laughed;  the  snow  diamonds,  lying  thickly  as  dust,  laughed; 
there  was  laughter  in  the  sun,  the  warmth  of  chuckling 
humour  in  those  glowing  walls  of  forest,  laughter  in  the 
blue  sky  above. 

His  hands  gripped  hard. 

In  this  world  he  knew  there  could  not  be  another  woman 
such  as  she.  Here,  in  all  this  emptiness  and  glory,  her 
shallow  soul  would  have  shrieked  in  agony;  she  would 
have  shrivelled  up  and  died.  It  was  too  clean.  Too 
white.  Too  pure.  It  would  have  frightened  her,  tor- 
tured her.  She  could  not  have  found  the  poison  she  re- 
quired to  give  her  life.  Her  unclean  desires  would  have 
driven  her  mad.    So  he  arraigned  her,  terribly,  without 


96      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

malice,  and  without  pity.  And  then,  Hke  the  quieting 
touch  of  a  gentle  hand  in  his  brain,  came  the  thought  of 
the  other  woman — the  Girl — ^whose  picture  he  carried  in 
his  pocket.  This  was  her  world  that  he  was  entering. 
She  was  up  there — ^somewhere — and  he  looked  over  the 
barriers  of  the  fwest  to  the  northwest.  Hundreds  of 
miles  away.  A  thousand.  It  was  a  big  world,  so  vast 
that  he  still  could  not  comprehend  it.  But  she  was  there, 
living,  breathing,  alive!  A  sudden  impulse  made  him 
draw  the  picture  from  his  pocket.  He  held  it  down  be- 
hind a  bale,  so  that  Father  Roland  would  not  chance  to 
see  it  if  he  looked  back.  He  unwrapped  the  picture,  and 
ceased  to  puff  at  his  pipe.  The  Girl  was  wonderful  to-day, 
imder  the  simhght  and  the  blue  halo  of  the  skies,  and  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  him.  That  thought  always  came  to 
him  first  of  all  when  he  looked  at  her.  She  wanted  to 
speak.  Her  lips  were  trembling,  her  eyes  were  looking 
straight  into  his,  the  sun  above  him  seemed  to  gleam  in  her 
hair.  It  was  as  if  she  knew  of  the  thoughts  that  were  in 
his  mind,  and  of  the  fight  he  was  making;  as  though  through 
space  she  had  seen  him,  and  watched  him,  and  wanted 
to  cry  out  for  him  the  way  to  come.  There  was  a  curious 
tremble  in  his  fingers  as  he  restored  the  picture  to  his 
pocket.  He  whispered  something.  His  pipe  had  gone 
out.  In  the  same  moment  a  sharp  cry  from  Father  Roland 
startled  him.  The  dogs  halted  suddenly.  The  creaking 
of  the  sledge  runners  ceased. 

Father  Roland  had  turned  his  face  down  the  lake,  and 
was  pointing. 

"Ldok!"  he  cried. 

David  jumped  from  the  sledge  and  stared  back  ovef 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      97 

their  trail.  The  scintillating  gleams  of  the  snow  crystals 
were  beginning  to  prick  his  eyes,  and  for  a  few  moments  he 
could  see  nothing  new  He  heard  a  muffled  ejaculation  of 
surprise  from  Mukoki.  And  then,  far  back — probably 
half  a  mile — ^he  saw  a  dark  object  travelling  slowly  toward 
them.  It  stopped.  It  was  motionless  as  a  dark  rock  now. 
Olose  beside  him  the  Little  Missioner  said: 

'* You've  won  again,  David.     Baree  is  following  us!" 

The  dog  came  no  nearer  as  they  watched.  After  a 
moment  David  pursed  his  Hps  and  sent  back  a  curious, 
piercing  whistle.  In  days  to  come  Baree  was  to  recognize 
that  call,  but  he  gave  no  attention  to  it  now.  For  several 
minutes  they  stood  gazing  back  at  him.  When  they  were 
ready  to  go  on  David  for  a  third  time  that  day  put  on  his 
snow  shoes.  His  task  seemed  less  difficult.  He  was 
getting  the  "swing"  of  the  shoes,  and  his  breath  came 
more  easily.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Father  Roland 
halted  the  team  again  to  give  him  a  "winding"  spell. 
Baree  had  come  nearer.  He  was  not  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  behind.  It  was  three  o'clock  when  they  struck 
off  the  lake  into  the  edge  of  the  forest  to  the  northwest. 
The  sun  had  grown  cold  and  pale.  The  snow  crystals  no 
longer  sparkled  so  furiously.  In  the  forest  there  was 
gathering  a  gray,  silent  gloom.  They  halted  again  in  the 
edge  of  that  gloom.  The  Missioner  sHpped  off  his  mittens 
and  filled  his  pipe  with  fresh  tobacco.  The  pipe  fell  from 
his  fingers  and  bm-ied  itself  in  the  soft  snow  at  his  feet. 
As  he  bent  down  for  it  Father  Roland  said  quite  audibly: 

''Damn!'' 

He  was  smihng  when  he  rose.    David,  also,  was  smiling. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said — as  though  the  other  had  de- 


98      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

mahded  an  explanation  of  his  thoughts — "what  a  curious 
man  of  God  you  are,  mon  Pere  I " 

The  Little  Missioner  chuckled,  and  then  he  muttered, 
half  to  himself  as  he  lighted  the  tobacco,  "True — very 
true."  When  the  top  of  the  bowl  was  glowing,  he  added: 
"How  are  your  legs?     It  is  still  a  good  mile  to  the  shack." 

"I  am  going  to  make  it  or  drop,"  declared  David. 

He  wanted  to  ask  a  question.  It  had  been  in  his  mind 
for  some  time,  and  he  burned  with  a  strange  eagerness  to 
have  it  answered.  He  looked  back,  and  saw  Baree  circling 
slowly  over  the  surface  of  the  lake  toward  the  fores  l. 
Casually  he  inquired: 

"How  far  is  it  to  Tavish's,  mon  Pere?** 

"Four  days,"  said  the  Missioner.  "Four  days,  if  we 
make  good  time,  and  another  week  from  there  to  God*s 
Lake.  I  have  paid  Tavish  a  visit  in  five  days,  and  once 
Tavish  made  God's  Lake  in  two  days  and  a  night  with 
seven  dogs.  Two  days  and  a  night!  Through  darkness 
he  came — darkness  and  a  storm.  That  is  what  fear  will 
do,  David.  Fear  drove  him.  I  have  promised  to  tell  you 
about  it  to-night.  You  must  know,  to  understand  him. 
He  is  a  strange  man — a  very  strange  man!" 

He  spoke  to  Mukoki  in  Cree,  and  the  Indian  responded 
with  a  sharp  command  to  the  dogs.  The  huskies  sprang 
from  their  bellies  and  strained  forward  in  their  traces. 
The  Cree  picked  his  way  slowly  ahead  of  them.  Father 
Roland  dropped  in  behind  him.  Again  David  followed 
the  sledge.  He  was  struck  with  wonder  at  the  suddenness 
with  which  the  sun  had  gone  out.  In  the  thick  forest  it 
was  like  the  beginning  of  night.  The  deep  shadows  and 
darkly  growing  caverns  of  gloom  seemed  to  give  birth  to 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE       99 

new  sounds.  He  heard  the  whit,  whit,  whit,  of  something 
close  to  him,  and  the  next  moment  a  great  snow  owl  flitted 
like  a  ghostly  apparition  over  his  head;  he  heard  the  patter 
of  snow  as  it  fell  from  the  bending  limbs;  from  out  of  a 
patch  of  darkness  two  trees,  rubbing  sUghtly  against  each 
other,  emitted  a  shivering  wail  that  startled  him — ^it  had 
seemed  so  like  the  cry  of  a  child.  He  was  straining  his 
ears  so  tensely  to  hear,  and  his  eyes  to  see,  that  he  forgot 
the  soreness  of  his  knees  and  ankles.  Now  and  then  the 
dogs  stopped  while  Mukoki  and  the  Missioner  dragged  a 
log  or  a  bit  of  brushwood  from  their  path.  During  one  of 
these  intervals  there  came  to  them,  from  a  great  distance, 
a  long,  mournful  howl. 

"  A  wolf ! "  said  Father  Roland,  his  face  a  gray  i^dow  as 
he  nodded  at  David.     "Listen!** 

From  behind  them  came  another  cry.     It  was  Baree. 

They  went  on,  circling  around  the  edge  of  a  great  wind- 
fall. A  low  wind  was  beginning  to  move  in  the  tops  of  the 
spruce  and  cedar,  and  soft  splashes  of  snow  fell  on  their 
heads  and  shoulders,  as  if  unseen  and  playful  hands  were 
pelting  them  from  above.  Again  and  again  David  caught 
the  swift,  ghostly  flutter  of  the  snow  owls;  three  times  he 
heard  the  wolf -howl;  once  again  Baree's  dismal,  homeless 
cry;  and  then  they  came  suddenly  out  of  the  thick  gloom 
of  the  forest  into  the  twilight  gray  of  a  clearing.  Twenty 
paces  from  them  was  a  cabin.  The  dogs  stopped.  Father 
Roland  fumbled  at  his  big  silver  watch,  and  held  it  dose  up 
to  his  eyes. 

"Half -past  four,"  he  said.  "Fairly  good  time  for  a  be- 
ginner, David!" 

He  broke  into  a  cheerful  whistle.    The  dogs  were  whin- 


100     THE  COUIIAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

ing  and  snapping  like  joyous  puppies  as  Mukoki  unfastened 
them.  The  Cree  himself  was  voluble  in  a  chuckling  and 
meaningless  way.  There  was  a  great  contentment  in  the 
air,  an  indefinable  inspiration  that  seemed  to  lift  the  gloom, 
David  could  not  understand  it,  though  in  an  elusive  sort 
of  way  he  felt  it.  He  did  not  understand  until  Father 
Roland  said,  across  the  sledge,  which  he  had  begun  to  un- 
pack: 

"Seems  good  to  be  on  the  trail  again,  David." 
That  was  it — ^the  trail!  This  was  the  end  of  a  day's 
achievement.  He  looked  at  the  cabin,  dark  and  unlighted 
in  the  open,  with  its  big  white  cap  of  snow.  It  looked 
friendly  for  all  its  darkness.  He  was  filled  with  the  desire 
to  become  a  partner  in  the  activities  of  Mukoki  and  the 
Missioner.  He  wanted  to  help,  not  because  he  placed  any 
value  on  his  assistance,  but  simply  because  his  blood  and 
his  brain  were  imposing  new  desires  upon  him.  He  kicked 
off  his  snow  shoes,  and  went  with  Mukoki  to  the  door  of 
the  cabin,  which  was  fastened  with  a  wooden  bolt.  When 
they  entered  he  could  make  out  things  indistinctly — a. 
stove  at  first,  a  stool,  a  box,  a  small  table,  and  a  bunk 
against  the  wall.  Mukoki  was  rattling  the  lids  of  the  stove 
when  Father  Roland  entered  with  his  arms  filled.  He 
dropped  his  load  on  the  floor,  and  David  went  back  to  the 
sledge  with  him.  By  the  time  they  had  brought  its 
burden  into  the  cabin  a  fire  was  roaring  in  the  stove,  and 
Mukoki  had  hung  a  lighted  lantern  over  the  table.  Then 
Father  Roland  seized  an  axe,  tested  its  keen  edge  with  his 
thumb,  and  said  to  David:  "Let's  go  cut  our  beds  before 
it's  too  dark."  Cut  their  beds!  But  the  Missioner's 
broad  back  was  disappearing  through  the  door  in  a  very 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MAftOfi  O'DOONE     101 

purposeful  way,  and  David  csught  .up  <ia  sectfnd  -axe'  iJad 
followed.  Young  balsams  twice  as  tall  as  a  man  were 
growing  about  the  cabin,  and  from  these  Father  Roland 
began  stripping  the  branches.  They  carried  armfuls  into 
the  cabin  imtil  the  one  bunk  was  heaped  high,  and  mean- 
while Mukoki  had  half  a  dozen  pots  and  kettles  and  pans 
on  the  glowing  top  of  the  sheet-iron  stove,  and  thick  cari- 
bou steaks  were  sizzling  in  a  homelike  and  comforting  way. 
A  little  later  David  ate  as  though  he  had  gone  hungry  all 
day.  Ordinarily  he  wanted  his  meat  well  done;  to-night 
he  devoured  an  inch-and-a  quarter  sirloin  steak  that  floated 
in  its  own  gravy,  and  was  red  to  the  heart  of  it.  When  they 
had  finished  they  lighted  their  pipes  and  went  out  to  feed 
the  dogs  a  frozen  fish  apiece. 

An  immense  satisfaction  pK>ssessed  David.  It  was  Uke 
something  soft  and  purring  inside  of  him.  He  made  no 
effort  to  explain  things.  He  was  accepting  facts,  and 
changes.  He  felt  bigger  to-night,  as  though  his  lungs  were 
stretching  themselves,  and  his  chest  expanding.  His 
fears  were  gone.  He  no  longer  saw  anything  to  dread  in 
the  white  wilderness.  He  was  eager  to  go  on,  eager  to 
reach  Tavish's.  Ever  since  Father  Roland  had  spoken  of 
Tavish  that  desire  had  been  growing  within  him.  Tavish 
had  not  only  come  from  the  Stikine  River;  he  had  lived  on 
Firepan  Creek.  It  was  incredible  that  he  should  not  know 
of  the  Girl:  who  she  was;  just  where  she  Uved;  why 
she  was  there.  White  i>eople  were  few  in  that  far  country. 
Tavish  would  surely  know  of  her.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  show  Tavish  the  picture,  keeping  to 
himself  the  manner  in  which  he  had  come  into  possession 
of  it.    The  daughter  of  a  friend,  he  would  tell  them — 


102     THE  CODiyLtfEOF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

bo^  Fatls^'Jlela/id.an5  Tavish.  Or  of  an  acquaintance. 
That,  at  least,  was  half  truth. 

A  dozen  things  Father  Roland  spoke  about  that  night 
before  he  alluded  to  Tavish.  David  waited.  He  did  not 
want  to  appear  too  deeply  interested.  He  desired  to  have 
the  thing  work  itself  out  in  a  fortuitous  sort  of  way,  gov- 
erned, as  he  was,  by  a  strong  feeling  that  he  could  not 
explain  his  position,  or  his  strange  and  growing  interest  in 
the  Girlj  if  the  Missioner  should  by  any  chance  discover 
the  part  he  had  played  in  the  haunting  though  incidental 
encounter  with  the  woman  on  the  train. 

"Fear — a  great  fear — ^his  Ufe  is  haunted  by  it,"  said 
Father  Roland,  when  at  last  he  began  talking  about 
Tavish.  He  was  seated  on  a  pile  of  balsams,  his  legs 
stretched  out  flat  on  the  floor,  his  back  to  the  wall,  and  he 
smoked  thoughtfully  as  he  looked  at  David.  "A  coward? 
I  don't  know.  I  have  seen  him  jump  at  the  snap  of  a  twig. 
I  have  seen  him  tremble  at  nothing  at  all.  I  have  seen 
him  shrink  at  darkness,  and  then,  again,  he  came  through 
a  terrible  darkness  to  reach  my  cabin  that  night.  Mad? 
Perhaps.  It  is  hard  to  believe  he  is  a  coward.  Would  a 
coward  live  alone,  as  he  does?  That  seems  impossible, 
too.  And  yet  he  is  afraid.  That  fear  is  always  close  at 
his  heels,  especially  at  night.  It  follows  him  like  a  hungry 
dog.  There  are  times  when  I  would  swear  it  is  not  fear  of 
a  living  thing.  That  is  what  makes  it — disturbing.  It  is 
weird — distressing.     It  makes  one  shiver." 

The  Missioner  was  silent  for  some  moments,  as  if  lost 
in  a  reverie.    Then  he  said,  reflectively : 

"I  have  seen  strange  things.  I  have  had  many  peni- 
tents.    My  ears  have  heard  much  that  you  would  not  be- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     103 

lieve.  It  has  all  come  in  my  long  day's  work  in  the  wil- 
derness. But  never,  never  have  I  seen  a  fight  like  this  that 
is  being  made  by  Tavish — a  fight  against  that  mysterious 
fear,  of  which  he  will  not  speak.  I  would  give  a  year  of  my 
life — ^yes,  even  more — to  help  him.  There  is  something 
about  him  that  is  lovable,  that  makes  you  want  to  cling  to 
him,  be  near  him.  But  he  will  have  none  of  that.  He 
wants  to  be  alone  with  his  fear.  Is  it  not  strange?  I  have 
pieced  Httle  things  together,  and  that  night — when  terror 
drove  him  to  my  cabin — ^he  betrayed  himself,  and  I  learned 
one  thing.     He  is  afraid  of  a  w^omaw/" 

"A  woman!'*  gasped  David. 

"Yes,  a  woman — a.  woman  who  lives — or  lived — ^up  in 
the  Stikine  River  country  you  mentioned  to-day.** 

David's  heart  stirred  strangely. 

"The  Stikine  River,  or — or — Firepan  Creek?"  he  asked. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  him  before  Father  Roland 
answered.  He  was  thinking  deeply,  with  his  eyes  half 
closed,  as  though  striving  to  recall  things  that  he  had  for- 
gotten. 

"Yes — it  was  on  the  Firepan.  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  said 
slowly.  "He  was  sick — small-pox,  as  I  told  you — ^and  it 
was  on  the  Firepan.  I  remember  that.  And  whoever  the 
woman  was,  she  was  there.  A  woman !  And  he — afraid ! 
Afraid,  even  now,  with  her  a  thousand  miles  away,  if  she 
lives.  Can  you  account  for  it?  I  would  give  a  great  deal 
to  know.  But  he  will  say  nothing.  And — it  is  not  my 
business  to  intrude.  Yet  I  have  guessed.  I  have  my  own 
conviction.     It  is  terrible." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  looking  straight  at  David. 

"  And  that  conviction.  Father  ?  "  David  barely  whispered. 


104     THE  COURA.GE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Tavish  is  afraid  of  some  one  who  is  dead,** 

"Dead!" 

"Yes,  a  woman — or  a  girl — ^who  is  dead;  dead  in  the 
flesh,  but  living  in  the  spirit  to  haunt  him.  It  is  that.  I 
know  it.    And  he  will  not  bare  his  soul  to  me." 

"A  girl  .  .  .  who  is  dead  ...  on  Firepan 
Creek.    Her  spirit    .     .     . " 

A  cold,  invisible  hand  was  clutching  at  David's  throat. 
Shadows  hid  his  face,  or  Father  Roland  would  have  seett» 
His  voice  was  strained.     He  forced  it  between  his  lips. 

"Yes,  her  spirit,"  came  the  Missioner's  answer,  and 
David  heard  the  scrape  of  his  knife  as  he  cleaned  out  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe.  "It  haunts  Tavish.  It  is  with  him 
always.    And  he  is  afraid  ofitT* 

David  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  went  toward  the  door, 
slipping  on  his  coat  and  cap.  "I'm  going  to  whistle  for 
Baree,"  he  said,  and  went  out.  The  white  world  was  bril- 
liant under  the  glow  of  a  full  moon  and  a  biUion  stars. 
It  was  the  most  wonderful  night  he  had  ever  seen,  and  yet 
for  a  few  moments  he  was  as  obKvious  of  its  amazing 
beauty,  its  almost  startling  vividness,  as  though  he  had 
passed  out  into  darkness. 

"A    girl     .     .    .    Firepem     .    .    .    dead     .    •    . 
haunting  Tavish     .     .     . " 

He  did  not  hear  the  whining  of  the  dogs.  He  was  again 
piecing  together  in  his  mind  that  picture — the  barefooted 
girl  standing  on  the  rock,  disturbed,  startled,  terrified, 
poised  as  if  about  to  fly  from  a  great  danger.  What  had 
happened  after  the  taking  of  that  picture?  Was  it  Tavish 
who  had  taken  it?  Was  it  Tavish  who  had  smrprised  hes 
there?    Was  it  Tavish— Tavish— Tavish    .    .    .    ? 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     105 

His  mind  could  not  go  on.  He  steadied  himself,  one 
hand  clutching  at  the  breast  of  his  coat,  where  the  picture 
lay. 

The  cabin  door  opened  behind  him.  The  Missioner 
came  out.    He  coughed,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"A  splendid  night,  David,"  he  said  softly.  "A  splen- 
did night!" 

He  spoke  in  a  strange,  quiet  voice  that  made  David 
turn.  The  Little  Missioner  was  facing  the  moon.  He  was 
gazing  off  into  that  wonder-world  of  forests  and  snow 
and  stars  and  moonlight  in  a  fixed  and  steady  gaze,  and  it 
seemed  to  David  that  he  aged,  and  shrank  into  smaller 
form,  and  that  his  shoulders  drooped  as  if  under  a  weight. 
And  all  at  once  David  saw  in  his  face  what  he  had  seen 
before  when  in  the  coach — a  forgetfulness  of  all  things  but 
one,  the  lifting  of  a  strange  curtain,  the  baring  of  a  soul; 
and  for  a  few  moments  Father  Roland  stood  with  his  face 
turned  to  the  Ught  of  the  skies,  as  if  preoccupied  by  an 
all-pervading  and  hopeless  grief. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  WAS  Baree  who  disturbed  the  silent  tableau  in  thd 
moonlight.  David  was  staring  at  the  Missioner, 
held  by  the  look  of  anguish  that  had  settled  so  quickly 
and  so  strangely  in  his  face,  as  if  this  bright  night  with  its 
moon  and  stars  had  recalled  to  him  a  great  sorrow,  when 
they  heard  again  the  wolf-dog's  howl  out  in  the  forest. 
It  was  quite  near.  David,  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  other, 
saw  Father  Roland  start,  as  if  for  an  instant  he  had  forgot- 
ten where  he  was.  The  Missioner  looked  his  way,  and 
straightened  his  shoulders  slowly,  with  a  smile  on  his  Hps 
that  was  strained  and  wan  as  the  smile  of  one  worn  out  by 
an  arduous  toil. 

"A  splendid  night,"  he  repeated,  and  he  raised  a  naked 
hand  to  his  head,  as  if  slowly  brushing  away  something 
from  before  his  eyes.  "It  was  a  night  like  this — ^this-^ 
fifteen  years  ago     .     .     . " 

He  stopped.  In  the  moonlight  he  brought  himself  to- 
gether with  a  jerk.  He  came  and  laid  a  hand  on  David's 
shoulder. 

"That  was  Baree,"  he  said.  "The  dog  has  followed 
us." 

"He  is  not  very  far  in  the  forest,"  answered  David. 

"No.     He  smells  us.     He  is  waiting  out  there  for  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them  as  they 
listened. 

I0€ 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     107 

"I  will  take  him  a  fish,"  said  David,  then.  "I  am  sure 
he  will  come  to  me." 

Mukoki  had  hoisted  the  gunny  sack  full  of  fish  well  up 
against  the  roof  of  the  cabin  to  keep  it  from  chance  ma- 
rauders of  the  night,  and  Father  Roland  stood  by  while 
David  lowered  it  and  made  a  choice  for  Baree's  supper. 
Then  he  reentered  the  cabin. 

It  was  not  Baree  who  drew  David  slowly  into  the  forest. 
He  wanted  to  be  alone,  away  from  Father  Roiand  and  the 
quiet,  insistent  scrutiny  of  the  Cree.  He  wanted  to  think, 
ask  himself  questions,  find  answers  for  them  if  he  could. 
His  mind  was  just  beginning  to  rouse  itself  to  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  events  of  the  past  day  and  night,  and  he  was 
like  one  bewildered  by  a  great  mystery,  and  startled  by 
visions  of  a  possible  tragedy.  Fate  had  played  with  him 
strangely.  It  had  linked  him  with  happenings  that  were 
inexplicable  and  unusual,  and  he  believed  that  they  were 
not  without  their  meaning  for  him.  More  or  less  of  a 
fatalist,  he  was  inspired  by  the  sudden  and  disturbing 
thought  that  they  had  happened  by  inevitable  necessity. 

Vividly  he  saw  again  the  dark,  haunting  eyes  of  the 
woman  in  the  coach,  and  heard  again  the  few  low,  tense 
words  with  which  she  had  revealed  to  him  her  quest  of  a 
man — a  man  by  the  name  of  Michael  O'Doone.  In  her 
presence  he  had  felt  the  nearness  of  tragedy.  It  had 
stirred  him  deeply,  almost  as  deeply  as  the  picture  she  had 
left  in  her  seat — the  picture  hidden  now  against  his  breast 
— ^like  a  thing  which  must  not  be  betrayed,  and  which  a 
strange  and  compelling  instinct  had  made  him  associate  in 
such  a  starthng  way  with  Tavish.  He  could  not  get  Tav- 
ish  out  of  his  mind;  Tavish,  the  haunted  man;  Tavish  the 


tOS     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE ; 

man  who  had  fled  from  the  Firepan  Creek  comitry  at  just 
about  the  time  the  girl  in  the  picture  had  stood  on  the 
rock  beside  the  pool;  Tavish,  terror-driven  by  a  spirit  of 
the  dead!  He  did  not  attempt  to  reason  the  matter,  or 
bare  the  folly  of  his  alarm.  He  did  not  ask  himself  about 
the  improbabiHty  of  it  all,  but  accepted  without  equivoca- 
tion that  strong  impression  as  it  had  come  to  him — the 
conviction  that  the  girl  on  the  rock  and  the  woman  in  the 
coach  were  in  some  way  identified  with  the  flight  of  Tavish, 
the  man  he  had  never  seen,  from  that  far  valley  in  the 
northwest  mountains. 

The  questions  he  asked  himself  now  were  not  to  establish 
in  his  own  mind  either  the  truth  or  the  absurdity  of  this 
conviction.  He  was  determining  with  himself  whether 
or  not  to  confide  in  Father  Roland.  It  was  more  than 
delicacy  that  made  him  hesitate;  it  was  almost  a  personal 
shame.  For  a  long  time  he  had  kept  within  his  breast  the 
secret  of  his  own  tragedy  and  dishonour.  That  it  was  his 
dishonour,  almost  as  much  as  the  woman's,  had  been  his 
own  conviction;  and  how,  at  last,  he  had  come  to  reveal 
that  corroding  sickness  in  his  soul  to  a  man  who  was 
almost  a  stranger  was  more  than  he  could  understand. 
But  he  had  done  just  that.  Father  Roland  had  seen  him 
stripped  down  to  the  naked  truth  in  an  hour  of  great  need, 
and  he  had  put  out  a  hand  in  time  to  save  him.  He  no 
longer  doubted  this  last  immeasurable  fact.  Twenty 
times  since  then,  coldly  and  critically,  he  had  thought  of 
the  woman  who  had  been  his  wife,  and  slowly  and  terribly 
the  enormity  of  her  crime  had  swept  further  and  further 
away  from  him  the  anguish  of  her  loss.  He  was  like  a  man 
risen  from  a  sick  bed,  breathing  freely  again,  tasting  once 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     109 

more  the  flavour  of  the  air  that  filled  his  lungs.  All  this 
he  owed  to  Father  Roland,  and  because  of  this — and  his 
confession  of  only  two  nights  ago — he  felt  a  burning  humili- 
ation at  the  thought  of  telling  the  Missioner  that  another 
face  had  come  to  fill  his  thoughts,  and  stir  his  anxieties. 
And  what  less  could  he  tell,  if  he  confided  in  him  at  all? 

He  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  or  more  into  the  forest, 
and  in  a  Uttle  open  space,  lighted  up  like  a  tiny  amphi- 
theatre in  the  glow  of  the  moon,  he  stopped.  Suddenly 
there  came  to  him,  thrilling  in  its  promise,  a  key  to  the 
situation.  He  would  wait  until  they  reached  Tavish*s. 
And  then,  in  the  presence  of  the  Missioner,  he  would  sud- 
denly show  Tavish  the  picture.  His  heart  throbbed  un- 
easily as  he  anticipated  the  possible  tragedy — the  sudden 
betrayal — of  that  moment,  for  Father  Roland  had  said, ' 
like  one  who  had  glimpsed  beyond  the  ken  of  human  eyes, 
that  Tatish  was  haunted  by  a  vision  of  the  dead.  The 
dead !  Could  it  be  that  she,  the  girl  in  the  picture  .  .  ,} 
He  shook  himself,  set  his  lips  tight  to  get  the  thought  away 
from  him.  And  the  woman — the  woman  in  the  coach, 
the  woman  who  had  left  in  her  seat  this  picture  that  was 
growing  in  his  heart  like  a  living  thing — who  was  she? 
Was  her  quest  one  of  vengeance — of  retribution?  Was 
Tavish  the  man  she  was  seeking?  Up  in  that  mountain 
valley — where  the  girl  had  stood  on  that  rock — ^had  his 
name  been  Michael  O'Doone? 

He  was  trembling  when  he  went  on,  deeper  into  the 
forest.  But  of  his  determination  there  was  no  longer  a 
doubt.  He  would  say  nothing  to  Father  Roland  until 
Tavish  had  seen  the  picture. 

Until  now  he  had  forgotten  Baree.    In  the  disquieting 


110     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

fear  with  which  his  thoughts  were  weighted  he  had  lost 
hold  of  the  fact  that  in  his  hand  he  still  carried  the  slightly 
curved  and  solidly  frozen  substance  of  a  fish.  The  move- 
ment of  a  body  near  him,  so  unexpected  and  alarmingly 
close  that  a  cry  broke  from  his  lips  as  he  leaped  to  one  side, 
roused  him  with  a  sudden  mental  shock.  The  beast, 
whatever  it  was,  had  passed  within  six  feet  of  him,  and 
now,  twice  that  distance  away,  stood  like  a  statue  hewn 
out  of  stone  levelling  at  him  the  fiery  gleam  of  a  solitary 
eye.  Until  he  saw  that  one  eye,  and  not  two,  David  did 
not  breathe.  Then  he  gasped.  The  fish  had  fallen  from 
his  fingers.     He  stooped,  picked  it  up,  and  called  softly: 

"Baree!" 

The  dog  was  waiting  for  his  voice.  His  one  eye  shifted, 
slanting  like  a  searchlight  in  the  direction  of  the  cabin, 
and  turned  swiftly  back  to  David.  He  whined,  and  David 
spoke  to  him  again,  calling  his  name,  and  holding  out  the 
fish.  For  several  moments  Baree  did  not  move,  but  eyed 
him  with  the  immobihty  of  a  half-bhnded  sphinx.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  dropped  on  his  belly  and  began  crawling 
toward  him. 

A  spatter  of  moonlight  fell  upon  them  as  David,  crouch- 
ing on  his  heels,  gave  Baree  the  fish,  holding  for  a  moment 
to  the  tail  of  it  while  the  hungry  beast  seized  its  head  be- 
tween his  powerful  jaws  with  a  grinding  crunch.  The 
power  of  those  jaws  sent  a  fittle  shiver  through  the  man  so 
close  to  them.  They  were  terrible — ^and  splendid.  A 
man's  leg-bone  would  have  cracked  between  them  like  a 
pipe  stem.  And  Baree,  with  that  power  of  death  in  his 
jaws,  had  a  second  time  crept  to  him  on  his  belly — not 
fearingly,  in  the  shadow  of  a  club,  but  like  a  thing  tamed 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     111 

into  slavery  by  a  yearning  adoration.  It  was  a  fact  that 
seized  upon  David  with  a  peculiar  hold.  It  built  up  be- 
tween them — between  this  down-and-out  beast  and  a  man 
fighting  to  find  himself — a  comradeship  which  perhaps 
only  the  man  and  the  beast  could  understand.  Even 
as  he  devoured  the  fish  Baree  kept  his  one  eye  on  David, 
as  though  fearing  he  might  lose  him  again  if  he  allowed  his 
gaze  to  falter  for  an  instant.  The  truculency  and  the 
menace  of  that  eye  were  gone.  It  was  still  bloodshot,  still 
burned  with  a  reddish  fire,  and  a  great  pity  swept  through 
David,  as  he  thought  of  the  blows  the  club  must  have 
given.  He  noticed,  then,  that  Baree  was  making  efforts 
to  open  the  other  eye;  he  saw  the  swollen  lid  flutter,  the 
muscle  twitch.  Impulsively  he  put  out  a  hand.  It  fell 
unflinchingly  on  Baree*s  head,  and  in  an  instant  the 
crunching  of  the  dog's  jaw  had  ceased,  and  he  lay  as  if 
dead.  David  bent  nearer.  With  the  thumb  and  fore- 
finger of  his  other  hand  he  gently  lifted  the  swollen  Kd. 
It  caused  a  hurt.  Baree  whined  softly.  His  great  body 
trembled.  His  ivory  fangs  clicked  Hke  the  teeth  of  a  man 
with  ague.  To  his  wolfish  soul,  trembHng  in  a  body  that 
had  been  condemned,  beaten,  clubbed  almost  to  the  door 
of  death,  that  hurt  caused  by  David's  fingers  was  a  caress. 
He  understood.  He  saw  with  a  vision  that  was  keener  than 
sight.  Faith  was  born  in  him,  and  burned  like  a  conflagra- 
tion. His  head  dropped  to  the  snow;  a  great,  gasping  sigh 
ran  through  him,  and  his  trembling  ceased.  His  good  eye 
closed  slowly  as  David  gently  and  persistently  massaged 
the  muscles  of  the  other  with  his  thumb  and  forefinger. 
When  at  last  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  returned  to  the  cabin, 
Baree  followed  him  to  the  edge  of  the  clearing. 


112     THE  COURAGE  OF  MAHGE  O'DOONE 

Mukoki  and  the  Missioner  had  made  their  beds  of  bal- 
sam boughs,  two  on  the  floor  and  one  in  the  bunk,  and  the 
Cree  had  already  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket  when  David 
entered  the  shack.     Father  Roland  was  wiping  David's  gun. 

"We'll  give  you  a  Uttle  practice  with  this  to-morrow," 
he  promised.     "Do  you  suppose  you  can  hit  a  moose?  " 

"I  have  my  doubts,  mon  PereJ* 

Father  Roland  gave  vent  to  his  ciu-ious  chuckle. 

"I  have  promised  to  make  a  marksman  of  you  in  ex- 
change for  your — ^your  trouble  in  teaching  me  how  to  use 
the  gloves,"  he  said,  pohshing  furiously.  There  was  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  as  if  a  moment  before  he  had  been 
laughing  to  himself.  The  gloves  were  on  the  table. 
He  had  been  examining  them  again,  and  David  found 
himself  smiKng  at  the  childhke  and  eager  interest  he  had 
taken  in  them.  Suddenly  Father  Roland  rubbed  still  a 
little  faster,  and  said: 

"If  you  can't  hit  a  moose  with  a  bullet  you  surely  can 
hit  me  with  these  gloves — eh?" 

"Yes,  quite  positively.  But  I  shall  be  merciful  if  you, 
in  turn,  show  some  charity  in  teaching  me  how  to  shoot." 

The  Little  Missioner  finished  his  pohshing,  set  the  rifle 
against  the  wall,  and  took  the  gloves  in  his  hands. 

"It  is  bright — almost  like  day—outside,"  he  said  a  little 
yearningly.     "Are  you — tired?" 

His  hint  was  obvious,  even  to  Mukoki,  who  stared  at 
him  from  under  his  blanket.  And  David  was  not  tired. 
If  his  afternoon's  work  had  fatigued  him  his  exhaustion 
was  forgotten  in  the  mental  excitement  that  had  fol- 
lowed the  Missioner's  story  of  Tavish.  He  took  a  pair 
of  the  gloves  in  his  hands,  and  nodded  toward  the  door. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     113 

'"You  mean     .     .     ." 
'  Father  Roland  was  on  liis  feet. 

"  If  you  are  not  tired.  It  would  give  us  a  better  stomach 
for  sleep." 

Mukoki  rolled  from  his  blanket,  a  grin  on  his  leathery 
face.  He  tied  the  wrist  laces  for  them,  and  followed  them 
out  into  the  moonlit  night,  his  face  a  copper-coloured 
gargoyle  illuminated  by  that  fixed  and  joyous  grin. 
David  saw  the  look  and  wondered  if  it  would  change  when 
he  sent  the  Little  Missioner  bowling  over  in  the  snow, 
which  he  was  quite  sure  to  do,  even  if  he  was  careful. 
He  was  a  splendid  boxer.  In  the  days  of  his  practice  he 
had  struck  a  terrific  blow  for  his  weight.  At  the  Athletic 
Club  he  had  been  noted  for  a  subtle  strategy  and  a  clever- 
ness of  defence  that  were  his  own.  But  he  felt  that  he  had 
grown  rusty  during  the  past  year  and  a  half.  This 
thought  was  in  his  mind  when  he  tapped  the  Missioner  on 
the  end  of  his  ruddy  nose.  They  squared  away  in  the 
moonhght,  eight  inches  deep  in  the  snow,  and  there  was  a 
joyous  and  eager  light  in  Father  Roland's  eyes.  The  tap 
on  his  nose  did  not  dim  it.  His  teeth  gleamed,  even  as 
David's  gloves  went  plunk,  plunk,  against  his  nose  again. 
Mukoki,  still  grinning  like  a  carven  thing,  chuckled  audi- 
bly. David  pranced  carelessly  about  the  Little  Missioner, 
poking  him  beautifully  as  he  offered  suggestions  and 
criticism. 

"You  should  protect  your  nose,  rnon  Phre" — plunk! 
"And  the  pit  of  your  stomach" — plunk  !  "And  also  your 
ears" — plunk,  plunk  I  "But  especially  your  nose,  mon 
Pere" — plunk,  plunk  I 

"And  sometimes  the  tip  of  yoiu'  jaw,  David,"  gurgled 


114    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Father  Roland,  and  for  a  few  moments  night  closed  in 
darkly  about  David. 

When  he  came  fully  into  his  senses  again  he  was  sitting 
in  the  snow,  with  the  Little  Missioner  bending  over  him 
anxiously,  and  Mukoki  grinning  down  at  him  like  a 
fiend. 

"Dear  Heaven,  forgive  me!"  he  heard  Father  Roland 
saying.  "I  didn't  mean  it  so  hard,  David — I  didn't! 
But  oh,  man,  it  was  such  a  chance — such  a  beautiful 
chance !    And  now  I've  spoiled  it.    I've  spoiled  our  fun." 

"Not  unless  you're — tired,"  said  David,  getting  up 
on  his  feet.  *  "You  took  me  at  a  disadvantage,  mon  Pbre, 
I  thought  you  were  green." 

"And  you  were  pulverizing  my  nose,"  apologized  Father 
Roland. 

They  went  at  it  again,  and  this  time  David  spared  none 
of  his  caution,  and  offered  no  advice,  and  the  Missioner 
no  longer  posed,  but  became  suddenly  as  elusive  and  as 
agile  as  a  cat.  David  was  amazed,  but  he  wasted  no 
breath  to  demand  an  explanation.  Father  Roland  was 
parrying  his  straight  blows  Hke  an  adept.  Three  times 
in  as  many  minutes  he  felt  the  sting  of  the  Missioner's 
glove  in  his  face.  In  straight-away  boxing,  without  the 
finer  tricks  and  artifice  of  the  game,  he  was  soon  convinced 
that  the  forest  man  was  almost  his  match.  Little  by 
little  he  began  to  exert  the  cleverness  of  his  training.  At 
the  end  of  ten  minutes  Father  Roland  was  sitting  dazedly 
in  the  snow,  and  the  grin  had  gone  from  Mukoki's  face. 
He  had  succumbed  to  a  trick — a  swift  side  step,  a  feint 
that  had  held  in  it  an  ambush,  and  the  seat  of  the  Little 
Missioner's  faculties  had  rocked.    But  he  was  gurgling 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     115 

joyously  when  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  with  one  arm  he 
hugged  David  as  they  returned  to  the  cabin. 

"Only  one  other  man  has  given  me  a  jolt  like  that  in 
many  a  year,"  he  boasted,  a  bit  proudly.  "And  that  was 
Tavish.  Tavish  is  good.  He  must  have  Hved  long  among 
fighting  men.  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  think  so  kindly  of 
him.  I  love  a  fighting  man  if  he  fights  honoiu-ably  with 
eitlier  brain  or  brawn,  even  more  than  I  despise  a  coward.** 

"And  yet  this  Tavish,  you  say,  is  pursued  by  a  great 
fear.  Can  he  be  so  much  of  a  fighting  man,  in  the  way 
you  mean,  and  still  live  in  terror  of     .     .     ." 

That  single  word  broke  from  the  Missioner  like  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  whip. 

"0/  what  is  he  afraid?"  he  repeated.  "Can  you  toll 
me?  Can  you  guess  more  than  I  have  guessed?  Is  one  a 
coward  because  he  fears  whispers  that  tremble  in  the  air 
and  sees  a  face  in  the  darkness  of  night  that  is  neither  Hving 
nor  dead?    Is  he?" 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  gone  to  bed  David  lay  wide 
awake  in  the  darkness,  his  mind  working  untU  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  was  prisoned  in  an  iron  chamber  from  which 
it  was  making  futile  efforts  to  escape.  He  could  hear  the 
steady  breathing  of  Father  Roland  and  Mukoki,  who  were 
asleep.  His  own  eyes  he  could  close  only  by  forced  efforts 
to  bring  upon  himself  the  unconsciousness  of  rest.  Tavish 
filled  his  mind — ^Tavish  and  the  girl — and  along  with  them 
the  mysterious  woman  in  the  coach.  He  struggled  with 
himself.  He  told  himself  how  absurd  it  all  was,  how 
grotesquely  his  imagination  was  employing  itself  with 
him — ^how  incredible  it  was  that  Tavish  and  the  girl  in  the 


116     THE  ^COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE 

picture  should  be  associated  in  that  terrible  way  that  had 
occurred  to  him.  But  he  failed  to  convince  himself.  He 
fell  asleep  at  last,  and  his  slumber  was  filled  with  fleeting 
visions.  When  he  awoke  the  cabin  was  filled  with  the  glow 
of  the  lantern.  Father  Roland  and  Mukoki  were  up,  and 
a  fire  was  crackhng  in  the  stove. 

The  four  days  that  followed  broke  the  last  link  in  the 
chain  that  held  David  Raine  to  the  life  from  which  he  was 
fleeing  when  the  forest  Missioner  met  him  in  the  Trans- 
continental. They  were  four  wonderful  days,  in  which 
they  travelled  steadily  northward;  days  of  splendid  sun- 
shine, of  intense  cold,  of  brilliant  stars  and  a  full  moon  at 
night.  The  first  of  these  four  days  David  travelled  fifteen 
miles  on  his  snow  shoes,  and  that  night  he  slept  in  a  balsam 
shelter  close  to  the  face  of  a  great  rock  which  they  heated 
with  a  fire  of  logs,  so  that  all  through  the  cold  hours  be- 
tween darkness  and  gray  dawn  the  boulder  was  like  a  huge 
warming-stone.  The  second  day  marked  also  the  second 
great  stride  in  his  education  in  the  fife  of  the  wild.  Fang 
and  hoof  and  padded  claw  were  at  large  again  in  the 
forests  after  the  bhzzard,  and  Father  Roland  stopped  at 
each  broken  path  that  crossed  the  trail,  pointing  out  to  him 
the  stories  that  were  written  in  the  snow.  He  showed  him 
where  a  fox  had  followed  silently  after  a  snow-shoe  rabbit; 
where  a  band  of  wolves  had  ploughed  through  the  snow 
in  the  trail  of  a  deer  that  was  doomed,  and  in  a  dense  run 
of  timber  where  both  moose  and  caribou  had  sought  refuge 
from  the  storm  he  explained  carefully  the  slight  difference 
between  the  hoofprints  of  the  two.  That  night  Baree 
came  into  camp  while  they  were  sleeping,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing they  found  where  he  had  burrowed  his  round  bed  in 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     117 

the  snow  not  a  dozen  yards  from  their  shelter.  The  third 
Horning  David  shot  his  moose.  And  that  night  he  lured 
Baree  almost  to  the  side  of  their  campfire,  and  tossed  him 
chunks  of  raw  flesh  from  where  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe. 

He  was  changed.  Three  days  on  the  trail  and  three 
nights  in  camp  under  the  stars  had  begun  their  promised 
miracle-working.  His  face  was  darkened  by  a  stubble  of 
beard,  his  ears  and  cheek  bones  were  reddened  by  exposure 
to  cold  and  wind;  he  felt  that  in  those  three  days  and  nights 
his  muscles  had  hardened,  and  his  weakness  had  left  him. 
"It  was  in  your  mind — ^your  sickness,"  Father  Roland 
had  told  him,  and  he  beUeved  it  now.  He  began  to  find 
a  pleasure  in  that  physical  achievement  which  he  had 
wondered  at  in  Mukoki  and  the  Missioner.  Each  noon 
when  they  stopped  to  boil  their  tea  and  cook  their  dinner, 
and  each  night  when  they  made  camp,  he  had  chopped 
down  a  tree.  To-night  it  had  been  an  8-inch  jack  pine, 
tough  with  pitch.  The  exertion  had  sent  his  blood  pound- 
ing through  him  furiously.  He  was  still  breathing  deeply 
as  he  sat  near  the  fire,  tossing  bits  of  meat  out  to  Baree. 
They  were  sixty  miles  from  Thoreau's  cabin,  straight  north, 
and  for  the  twentieth  time  Father  Roland  was  telling  him 
how  weU  he  had  done. 

"And  to-morrow,"  he  added,  "we'll  reach  Tavish's." 
It  had  grown  upon  David  that  to  see  Tavish  had  be- 
come his  one  great  mission  in  the  North.  What  adventure 
lay  beyond  that  meeting  he  did  not  surmise.  All  his 
thoughts  had  centred  in  the  single  desire  to  let  Tavish 
look  upon  the  picture.  To-night,  after  the  Missioner 
had  joined  Mukoki  in  the  silk  tent  buried  warmly  under 
the  mass  of  cut  balsam,  he  sat  a  Httle  longer  beside  the 


118     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

fire,  and  asked  himself  questions  which  he  had  not  thought 
of  before.  He  would  see  Tavish.  He  would  show  him 
the  picture.  And — ^what  then?  Would  that  be  the  end 
of  it?  He  felt,  for  a  moment,  uncomfortable.  Beyond 
Tavish  there  was  a  disturbing  and  imanswerable  problem. 
The  Girl,  if  she  still  Hved,  was  a  thousand  miles  from  where 
he  was  sitting  at  this  moment;  to  reach  her,  with  that 
distance  of  mountain  and  forest  between  them,  would  be 
like  travelling  to  the  end  of  the  world.  It  was  the  first 
time  there  had  risen  in  his  mind  a  definite  thought  of 
going  to  her — ^if  she  were  aUve.  It  startled  him.  It 
was  Hke  a  shock.  Go  to  her?  Why?  He  drew  forth  the 
pictiu*e  from  his  coat  pocket  and  stared  at  the  wonder-face 
of  the  Girl  in  the  Kght  of  the  blazing  logs.  Why  ?  His 
heart  trembled.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  grayish  film 
of  smoke  rising  between  him  and  the  balsam-covered  tent, 
and  slowly  he  saw  another  face  take  form,  framed  in  that 
wraith-Hke  mist  of  smoke — ^the  face  of  a  golden  goddess, 
laughing  at  him,  taunting  him.  Laughing — laughing! 
.  .  .  He  forced  his  gaze  from  it  with  a  shudder.  Again 
he  looked  at  the  picture  of  the  Girl  in  his  hand.  ^'She 
knows.  She  understands,  SJie  comforts  me."  He  whis- 
pered the  words.  They  were  like  a  breath  rising  out  of  his 
soul.  He  replaced  the  picture  in  his  pocket,  and  for  a 
moment  held  it  close  against  his  breast. 

The  next  day,  as  the  swift-thickening  gloom  of  northern 
night  was  descending  about  them  again,  the  Missioner 
halted  his  team  on  the  crest  of  a  boulder-strewn  ridge,  and 
pointing  down  into  the  murky  plain  at  their  feet  he  said, 
with  the  satisfaction  of  one  who  has  come  to  a  journey's  endt 

"There  is  Tavish's." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THEY  went  down  into  the  plain.  David  strained 
his  eyes,  but  he  could  see  nothing  where  Father 
Roland  had  pointed  except  the  purpUsh  sea  of  for- 
est growing  black  in  the  fading  twihght.  Ahead  of  the  team 
Mukoki  picked  his  way  slowly  and  cautiously  among  the 
snow-hidden  rocks,  and  with  the  Missioner  David  flung 
his  weight  backward  on  the  sledge  to  keep  it  from  running 
upon  the  dogs.  It  was  a  thick,  wild  place  and  it  struck 
him  that  Tavish  could  not  have  chosen  a  spot  of  more 
sinister  aspect  in  which  to  hide  himself  and  his  secret. 
\  terribly  lonely  place  it  was,  and  still  as  death  as  they 
went  down  into  it.  They  heard  not  even  the  howl  of  a 
dog,  and  surely  Tavish  had  dogs.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  speaking,  of  asking  the  Missioner  why  Tavish,  haunted 
by  fear,  should  bury  himself  in  a  place  like  this,  when  the 
lead-dog  suddenly  stopped  and  a  low,  Hngering  whine 
drifted  back  to  them.  David  had  never  heard  anything 
like  that  whine.  It  swept  through  the  line  of  dogs,  from 
throat  to  throat,  and  the  beasts  stood  stiff-legged  and 
stark  in  their  traces,  staring  with  eight  pairs  of  restlessly 
blazing  eyes  into  the  wall  of  darkness  ahead.  The  Cree 
had  turned,  but  the  sharp  command  on  his  lips  had  frozen 
there.  David  saw  him  standing  ahead  of  the  team  as 
silent  and  as  motionless  as  rock.  From  him  he  looked  into 
tbfc  Missioner's  face.    Father  Roland  was  staring.     There 

U9 


120     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

was  a  strange  suspense  in  his  breathing.  And  then,  sud* 
denly,  the  lead-dog  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and  turning 
his  gray  muzzle  up  to  the  sky  emitted  a  long  and  mournful 
howl.  There  was  something  about  it  that  made  David 
shiver.  Mukoki  came  staggering  back  through  the  snow 
like  a  sick  man. 

''Nipoo-vdn  Ooyoo  !"  he  said,  his  eyes  shining  Uke  points 
of  flame.    A  shiver  seemed  to  be  running  through  him. 

For  a  mcHnent  the  Missioner  did  not  seem  to  hear  him, 
Then  he  cried : 

"  Give  them  the  whip !    Drive  them  on ! " 

The  Cree  turned,  unwinding  his  long  lash. 

"NipoO'Win  Ooyoo  /"  he  muttered  again. 

The  whip  cracked  over  the  backs  of  the  huskies,  the 
end  of  it  stinging  the  rump  of  the  lead-dog,  who  was 
master  of  them  all.  A  snarl  rose  for  an  instant  in  his 
throat,  then  he  straightened  out,  and  the  dogs  lurched 
forward.  Mukoki  ran  ahead,  so  that  the  lead-dog  waa 
close  at  his  heels. 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  David. 

In  the  gloom  the  Missioner  made  a  gesture  of  protest 
with  his  two  hands.  David  could  no  longer  see  his 
face. 

"He  is  superstitious,"  he  growled.  "He  is  absurd*- 
He  would  make  the  very  devil's  flesh  creep.  He  says  that 
old  Beaver  has  given  the  death  howl.     Bah! " 

David  could  feel  the  other's  shudder  in  the  darkness. 
They  went  on  for  another  himdred  yards.  With  a  low 
word  Mukoki  stopped  the  team.  The  dogs  were  whining 
softly,  staring  straight  ahead,  when  David  and  the  Mis- 
s^ner  joined  the  Cree. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     121 

Father  Roland  pointed  to  a  dark  blot  in  the  night,  fifty 
paces  beyond  them.    He  spoke  to  David. 

"There  is  Tavish's  cabin.     Come.     We  will  see." 

Mukoki  remained  with  the  team.  They  could  hear  the 
dogs  whining  as  they  advanced.  The  cabin  took  shape  in 
their  faces — ^grotesque,  dark,  lifeless.  It  was  a  foreboding 
thing,  that  cabin.  He  remembered  in  a  flash  all  that  the 
Missidner  had  told  him  about  Tavish.  His  pulse  was 
beating  swiftly.  A  shiver  ran  up  his  back,  and  he  was 
filled  with  a  strange  dread.  Father  Roland's  voice  startled 
him. 

"  Tavish !    Tavish ! "  it  called. 

They  stood  close  to  the  door,  but  heard  no  answer. 
Father  Roland  stamped  with  his  foot,  and  scraped  with 
his  toe  on  the  ground. 

"Sec,  the  snow  has  been  cleaned  away  recently,"  he 
said.  "Mukold  is  afooU  He  is  superstitious.  He  made 
me,  for  an  instant — ^afraid." 

There  was  a  vast  relief  in  his  voice.  The  cabin  door 
was  unbolted  and  he  flung  it  open  confidently.  It  was 
pitch  dark  inside,  but  a  flood  of  warm  air  struck  their 
faces.    The  Missioner  laughed. 

"Tavish,  are  you  asleep?"  he  called. 

There  was  no  answer.     Father  Roland  entered. 

"He  has  been  here  recently.  There  is  a  fire  in  the 
stove.  We  will  make  ourselves  at  home."  He  fumbled 
in  his  clothes  and  found  a  match.  A  moment  later  he 
struck  it,  and  Kghted  a  tin  lamp  that  hung  from  the 
ceiUng.  In  its  glow  his  face  was  of  a  strange  colour.  He 
had  been  under  strain.  The  hand  that  held  the  burning 
match  was  unsteady.     "Strange,  very  strange,"  he  was 


122     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

saying,  as  if  to  himself.  And  then:  "Preposterous!  I 
will  go  back  and  tell  Mukoki.  He  is  shivering.  He  ia 
afraid.  He  believes  that  Tavish  is  in  league  with  the  devil. 
He  says  that  the  dogs  know,  and  that  they  have  warned 
him.    Queer.    Monstrously  queer.    And  interesting.    Eh?" 

He  went  out.  David  stood  where  he  was,  looking  about 
him  in  the  blurred  light  of  the  lamp  over  his  head.  He 
almost  expected  Tavish  to  creep  out  from  some  dark  cor- 
ner; he  half  expected  to  see  him  move  from  under  the 
dishevelled  blankets  in  the  bunk  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room.  It  was  a  big  room,  twenty  feet  from  end  to  end, 
and  almost  as  wide,  and  after  a  moment  or  two  he  knew 
that  he  was  the  only  living  thing  in  it,  except  a  small, 
gray  mouse  that  came  fearlessly  quite  close  to  his  feet. 
And  then  he  saw  a  second  mouse,  and  a  third,  and  about 
him,  and  over  him,  he  heard  a  creeping,  scurrying  noise,  as 
of  many  tiny  feet  pattering.  A  paper  on  the  table  rustled, 
a  series  of  squeaks  came  from  the  bunk,  he  felt  something 
that  was  like  a  gentle  touch  on  the  toe  of  his  moccasin, 
and  looked  down.  The  cabin  was  alive  with  mice!  It 
was  filled  with  the  restless  movement  of  them — little 
bright-eyed  creatures  who  moved  about  him  without  fear, 
and,  he  thought,  expectantly.  He  had  not  moved  an  inch 
when  Father  Roland  came  again  into  the  cabin.  He 
pointed  to  the  floor. 

"The  place  is  alive  with  them!"  he  protested. 

Father  Roland  appeared  in  great  good  humour  as  he 
slipped  off  his  mittens  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  the  stove. 

"Tavish's  pets,'*  he  chuckled.  "He  says  they're  com-i 
pany.  I've  seen  a  dozen  of  them  on  his  shoulders  at  one 
time.    Queer.    Queer." 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     123 

His  hands  made  the  rasping  sound  as  he  rubbed  them. 
Suddenly  he  Kfted  a  Ud  from  the  stove  and  peered  into 
the  fire-box. 

"He  put  fuel  in  here  less  than  an  hour  ago,"  he  said. 
**  Wonder  where  he  can  be  mouching  at  this  hour.  The 
dogs  are  gone."  He  scanned  the  table.  "No  supper. 
Pans  clean.  Mice  hungry.  He'll  be  back  soon.  But  we 
won't  wait.     I'm  famished." 

He  spoke  swiftly,  and  filled  the  stove  with  wood. 
Mukoki  began  bringing  in  the  dunnage.  The  uneasy 
gleam  was  still  in  his  eyes.  His  gaze  was  shifting  and 
restless  with  expectation.  He  came  and  went  noiselessly, 
treading  as  though  he  feared  his  footsteps  would  awaken 
some  one,  and  David  saw  that  he  was  afraid  of  the  mice. 
One  of  them  ran  up  his  sleeve  as  they  were  eating  supper, 
and  he  flung  it  from  him  with  a  strange,  quick  breath,  his 
eyes  blazing. 

"  Muche  Munito  I "  he  shuddered. 

He  swallowed  the  rest  of  his  meat  hurriedly,  and  after 
that  took  his  blankets,  and  with  a  few  words  in  Cree  to 
the  Missioner  left  the  cabin. 

"He  says  they  are  Httle  devils — the  mice,"  said  Father 
Roland,  looking  after  him  reflectively.  "He  will  sleep 
near  the  dogs.  I  wonder  how  far  his  intuition  goes?  He 
beUeves  that  Tavish  harbours  bad  spirits  in  this  cabin, 
and  that  they  have  taken  the  form  of  mice.  Pooh! 
They're  cunning  httle  vermin.  Tavish  has  taught  them 
tricks.     Watch  this  one  feed  out  of  my  hand ! " 

Half  a  dozen  times  they  had  climbed  to  David's  shoulders. 
One  of  them  had  nestled  in  a  warm  furry  ball  against  his 
neck,  as  if  waiting.     They  were  certainly  companionable — 


124     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

quite  chummy,  as  the  Missioner  said.  No  wonder  Tavish 
harboured  them  in  his  loneUness.  David  fed  them  and 
let  them  nibble  from  his  fingers,  and  yet  they  gave  him  a 
distinctly  unpleasant  sensation.  When  the  Missioner  had 
finished  his  last  cup  of  oofiFee  he  crumbled  a  thick  chimlc 
of  bannock  and  placed  it  on  the  floor  back  of  the  stove. 
The  mice  gathered  roimd  it  in  a  silent,  hungry,  nibbUng 
horde.  David  tried  to  count  them.  There  must  have 
been  twenty.  He  felt  an  impulse  to  scoop  them  up  in 
something,  Tavish's  water  pail  for  instance,  and  pitch  them 
out  into  the  night.  The  creatures  became  quieter  aftei 
their  gorge  on  bannock  crumbs.  Most  of  them  dis- 
appeared. 

For  a  long  time  David  and  the  Missioner  sat  smoking 
their  pipes,  waiting  for  Tavish.  Father  Roland  was 
puzzled  and  yet  he  was  assured.  He  was  puzzled  because 
Tavish's  snow  shoes  hung  on  their  wooden  peg  in  one  of 
the  cross  logs  and  his  rifle  was  in  its  rack  over  the  bunk. 

"I  didn't  know  he  had  another  pair  of  snow  shoes,"  he 
said.  "Still,  it  is  quite  a  time  since  I  have  seen  him — a 
number  of  weeks.  I  came  down  in  the  early  November 
snow.  He  is  not  far  away  or  he  would  have  taken  his 
rifle.  Probably  setting  a  few  fresh  poison-baits  after  the 
storm." 

They  heard  the  sweep  of  a  low  wind.  It  often  came  at 
night  after  a  storm,  usually  from  off  the  Barrens  to  the 
northwest.  Something  thumped  gently  against  the  out- 
side of  the  cabin,  a  low,  pecuUarly  heavy  and  soft  sort  of 
sound,  like  a  padded  object,  with  only  the  log  wall  sepa- 
rating it  from  the  bunk.  Their  ears  caught  it  quite  dis- 
tinctly. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O  DOONE  125 

"Tavish  hangs  his  meat  out  there,"  the  Missioner  ex- 
plained, observing  the  sudden  direction  of  David's  eyes. 
"A  haunch  of  moose,  or,  if  he  has  been  lucky,  of  caribou. 
I  had  forgotten  Tavish's  cache  or  we  might  have  saved  our 

«K»t." 

He  ran  a  hand  through  his  thick,  grayish  hair  until  it 
«tood  up  about  his  head  like  a  brush. 

David  tried  not  to  reveal  his  restlessness  as  they  waited. 
At  each  new  sound  he  hoped  that  what  he  heard  was 
Tavish's  footsteps.  He  had  quite  decidedly  planned  his 
dfcction.  Tavish  would  enter,  and  of  course  there  would  be 
greetings,  and  possibly  half  an  hour  or  more  of  smoking  and 
talk  before  he  brought  up  the  Firepan  Creek  country, 
unless,  as  might  fortuitously  happen.  Father  Roland  spoke 
of  it  ahead  of  him.  After  that  he  would  show  Tavish  the 
picture,  and  he  would  stand  well  in  the  light  so  that  it 
would  be  impressed  upon  Tavish  all  at  once.  He  noticed 
that  the  chimney  of  the  lamp  was  sooty  and  discoloured, 
and  somewhat  to  the  Missioner's  amusement  he  took  it  off 
and  cleaned  it.  The  Hght  was  much  more  satisfactory 
then.  He  wandered  about  the  cabin,  scrutinizing,  as  if 
out  of  curiosity,  Tavish's  belongings.  There  was  not 
much  to  discover.  Close  to  the  bunk  there  was  a  small 
battered  chest  with  riveted  steel  ribs.  He  wondered 
whether  it  was  unlocked,  and  what  it  contained.  As  he 
stood  over  it  he  could  hear  plainly  the  ihtidy  tkud,  thvdy  of  the 
thing  outside — ^the  haunch  of  meat — as  though  some  one 
were  tapping  fragments  of  the  Morse  code  in  a  careless  and 
broken  sort  of  way.  Then,  without  any  particular  motive, 
he  stepped  into  the  dark  comer  at  the  end  of  the  bunk. 
An  agonized  squeak  came  from  under  his  foot,  and  he  felt 


126     THE  COURAGE  OF  MAllGE  O'DOONE 

something  small  and  soft  flatten  out,  like  a  wad  of  dough. 
He  jumped  back.  An  exclamation  broke  from  his  lips. 
It  was  unpleasant,  though  the  soft  thing  was  nothing  more 
than  a  mouse. 

"Confound  it!"  he  said. 

Father  Roland  was  listening  to  the  slow,  pendulum-like 
ihtid,  thudy  thud,  against  the  logs  of  the  cabin.  It  seemed  to 
come  more  distinctly  as  David  crushed  out  the  life  of  the 
mouse,  as  if  pounding  a  protest  upon  the  wall. 

"Tavish  has  hung  his  meat  low,"  he  said  concernedly. 
**  Quite  careless  of  him,  unless  it  is  a  very  large  quarter." 

He  began  slowly  to  undress. 

"We  might  as  well  turn  in,"  he  suggested.  "When 
Tavish  shows  up  the  dogs  will  raise  bedlam  and  wake  us. 
Throw  out  Tavish's  blankets  and  put  your  own  in  his  bunk. 
I  prefer  the  floor.  Always  did.  Nothing  Uke  a  good, 
smooth  floor     .     .     ." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  cabin  door. 
The  Cree  thrust  in  his  head  and  shoulders.  He  came  no 
farther.  His  eyes  were  afire  with  the  smouldering  gleam  of 
garnets.  He  spoke  rapidly  in  his  native  tongue  to  the 
Missioner,  gesturing  with  one  lean,  brown  hand  as  he 
talked.  Father  Roland's  face  became  heavy,  furrowed, 
perplexed.  He  broke  in  suddenly,  in  Cree,  and  when  he 
ceased  speaking  Mukoki  withdrew  slowly.  The  last 
David  saw  of  the  Indian  was  his  shifting,  garnet-like  eyes, 
disappearing  like  beads  of  blackish  flame. 

"Pestr*  cried  the  Little  Missioner,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  in  disgust.  "The  dogs  are  uneasy.  Mukoki 
says  they  smell  death.  They  sit  on  their  haunches,  he 
«iys,  staring — staring  at  nothiug,  and  whining  like  puppies. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O  DOONE  127 

tte  is  going  back  with  them  to  the  other  side  of  the  ridge. 
If  it  will  ease  his  soul,  let  him  go. " 

"I  have  heard  of  dogs  doing  that,"  said  David. 

"Of  course  they  will  do  it,"  shot  back  Father  Roland 
unhesitatingly.  "Northern  dogs  always  do  it,  and  es- 
pecially mine.  They  are  accustomed  to  death.  Twenty 
times  in  a  winter,  and  sometimes  more,  I  care  for  the  dead. 
They  always  go  with  me,  and  they  can  smell  death  in  the 
wind.  But  here — ^why,  it  is  absurd!  There  is  nothing 
dead  here — ^unless  it  is  that  mouse,  and  Tavish's  meat!** 
He  shook  himself,  grumbling  under  his  breath  at  Mukoki'» 
folly.  And  then:  "The  dogs  have  always  acted  queerly 
when  Tavish  was  near,"  he  added  in  a  lower  voice.  "1 
can't  explain  why;  they  simply  do.  Instinct,  possibly. 
His  presence  makes  them  uneasy.  An  imusual  man,  thi* 
Tavish.  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  am  anxious  for  you  to 
meet  him." 

That  his  mind  was  quite  easy  on  the  score  of  Tavish's 
physical  well-being  he  emphasized  by  falhng  asleep  very 
shortly  after  rolling  himself  up  in  his  blankets  on  the  floor. 
During  their  three  nights  in  camp  David  had  marvelled 
at  and  envied  the  ease  with  which  Father  Roland  could 
drop  off  into  profound  and  satisfactory  slumber,  this 
being,  as  his  new  friend  had  explained  to  him,  the  great 
and  underlying  virtue  of  a  good  stomach.  To-nig!it, 
however,  the  Missioner's  deep  and  regular  breathing  as 
he  lay  on  the  floor  was  a  matter  of  vexation  to  him.  He 
wanted  him  awake.  He  wanted  him  up  and  alive, 
thoroughly  alive,  when  Tavish  came.  "Pounding  his 
ear  like  a  tenderfoot,"  he  thought,  "while  I,  a  puppy  in 
harness,  couldn't  sleep  if  I  wanted  to. "    He  was  nervously 


128     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

alert.  He  filled  his  pipe  for  the  third  or  fourth  time  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  listening  for  Tavish. 
He  was  certain,  from  all  that  had  been  said,  that  Tavish 
would  come.  All  he  had  to  do  was  wait.  There  had  been 
growing  in  him,  a  bit  imconsciously  at  first,  a  feeling  of 
animosity  toward  Tavish,  an  emotion  that  bm*ned  in  him 
with  a  gathering  fierceness  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  cabin,  grinding  out  in  his  mental  restlessness 
visions  of  what  Tavish  might  have  done.  Conviction 
had  never  been  stronger  in  him.  Tavish,  if  he  had  guessed 
correctly,  was  a  fiend.  He  would  soon  know.  And  if 
he  was  right,  if  Tavish  had  done  that,  if  up  in  those 
mountains    .    .     . 

His  eyes  blazed  and  his  hands  were  clenched  as  he 
looked  down  at  Father  Roland.  After  a  moment,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  Missioner's  recumbent  form,  he 
reached  to  the  pocket  of  his  coat  which  he  had  flung  on 
the  bimk  and  drew  out  the  picture  of  the  Girl.  He  looked 
at  it  a  long  time,  his  heart  growing  warm,  and  the  tense 
lines  softening  in  his  face. 

"It  can't  be,"  he  whispered.     "She  is  alive!" 

As  if  the  wind  had  heard  him,  and  was  answering,  there 
came  more  distinctly  the  sound  close  behind  him. 

Thud!    Thud!    Thud! 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  David  closed  his  fingers 
tightly  about  the  picture.    And  then,  more  insistently: 

Thud!     ThudJ     Thud! 

He  put  the  picture  back  into  his  pocket,  and  rose  to  his 
feet.  Mechanically  he  slipped  on  his  coat.  He  went  to 
the  door,  opened  it  softly,  and  passed  out  into  the  night. 
The  moon  was  above  him,  like  a  great,  white  disc.    The 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      129 

sky  burned  with  stars.  He  could  see  now  to  the  foot  ol 
the  ridge  over  which  Mukoki  had  gone,  and  the  clearing 
about  the  cabin  lay  in  a  cold  and  luminous  glory.  Tavish, 
if  he  had  been  caught  in  the  twihght  darkness  and  had 
waited  for  the  moon  to  rise,  would  be  showing  up  soon. 

He  walked  to  the  side  of  the  cabin  and  looked  back. 
Quite  distinctly  he  could  see  Tavish's  meat,  suspended 
from  a  stout  sapling  that  projected  straight  out  from  under 
the  edge  of  the  roof.  It  hung  there  darkly,  a  Httle  in 
shadow,  swinging  gently  in  the  wind  that  had  risen,  and 
tap-tap-tapping  against  the  logs.  David  moved  toward 
it,  gazing  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  in  which  he  thought 
he  had  heard  a  sound  that  was  like  the  creak  of  a  sledge 
runner.  He  hoped  it  was  Tavish  returning.  For  several 
moments  he  listened  with  his  back  to  the  cabin.  Then  he 
turned.  He  was  very  close  to  the  thing  hanging  from  the 
sapUng.  It  was  swinging  sHghtly.  The  moon  shone  on 
it,  and  then —  Great  God!  A  face — a.  human  face! 
A  face,  bearded,  with  bulging,  staring  eyes,  gaping  mouth 
— a  grin  of  agony  frozen  in  it!  And  it  was  tapping,  tap- 
ping, tapping! 

He  stagprered  back  with  a  dreadful  cry.  He  swayed  to 
the  door,  groped  bUndly  for  the  latch,  stumbled  in  clumsily, 
like  a  drunken  man.  The  horror  of  that  lifeless,  grinning 
face  was  in  his  voice.  He  had  awakened  the  Missioner, 
who  was  sitting  up,  staring  at  him. 

"Tavish  .  .  ."  cried  David  chokingly;  "Tavish— 
is  dead!"  and  he  pointed  to  the  end  of  the  cabin  where 
they  could  hear  again  that  ta'p-tap-tapping  against  the  log 
wall. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

NOT  until  afterward  did  David  realize  how  terribly 
his  announcement  of  Tavish's  death  must  have 
struck  into  the  soul  of  Father  Roland.  For  a  few 
seconds  the  Missioner  did  not  move.  He  was  wide  awake, 
he  had  heard,  and  yet  he  looked  at  David  dumbly,  his 
two  hands  gripping  his  blanket.  When  he  did  move,  it 
was  to  turn  Jiis  face  slowly  toward  the  end  of  the  cabin 
where  the  thing  was  hanging,  with  only  the  wall  between. 
Then,  still  slowly,  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

David  thought  he  had  only  half  understood. 

"Tavish — is  dead!"  he  repeated  huskily,  straining  to 
swallow  the  thickening  in  his  throat.  "He  is  out  there- 
hanging  by  his  neck — dead!" 

Dead!    He  emphasized  that  word — spoke  it  twice. 

Father  Roland  still  did  not  answer.  He  was  getting 
into  his  clothes  mechanically,  his  face  curiously  ashen,  his 
eyes  neither  horrified  nor  startled,  but  with  a  stunned  look 
in  them.  He  did  not  speak  when  he  went  to  the  door  and 
out  into  the  night.  David  followed,  and  in  a  moment 
they  stood  close  to  the  thing  that  was  hanging  where 
Tavish's  meat  should  have  been.  The  moon  threw  a  vivid 
sort  of  spotlight  on  it.  It  was  grotesque  and  horrible — ' 
very  bad  to  look  at,  and  unforgettable.  Tavish  had  not 
died  easily.  He  seemed  to  shriek  that  fact  at  them  as  he 
swung  there  dead;  even  now  he  seemed  more  terrified  thao 

ISO 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     ISl 

cold.  His  teeth  gleamed  a  little.  That,  perhaps,  was 
the  worst  of  it  all.  And  his  hands  were  clenched  tight. 
David  noticed  that.  Nothing  seemed  relaxed  about 
him. 

Not  until  he  had  looked  at  Tavish  for  perhaps  sixty 
full  seconds  did  Father  Roland  speak.  He  had  recovered 
himself,  judging  from  his  voice.  It  was  quiet  and  un- 
excited.  But  in  his  first  words,  unemotional  as  they 
were,  there  waa  a  significance  that  was  almost  frighten- 
ing. 

"At  last!    She  made  him  do  that!" 

He  was  speaking  to  himself,  looking  straight  into 
Tavish's  agonized  face.  A  great  shudder  swept  through 
David.  She!  He  wanted  to  cry  out.  He  wanted  to 
know.  But  the  Missioner  now  had  his  hands  on 
the  gruesome  thing  in  the  moonlight,  and  he  was  say- 
ing: 

"There  is  still  warmth  in  his  body.  He  has  not  been 
long  dead.  He  hanged  himself,  I  should  say,  not  more 
than  half  an  hour  before  we  reached  the  cabin.  Give  me 
a  hand,  David!" 

With  a  mighty  effort  David  pulled  himself  together. 
After  all,  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  dead  man  hanging 
there.  But  his  hands  were  hke  ice  as  he  seized  hold  of  it. 
A  knife  gleamed  in  the  moonlight  over  Tavish's  head  as 
the  Missioner  cut  the  rope.  They  lowered  Tavish  to  the 
snow,  and  David  went  into  the  cabin  for  a.  blanket. 
Father  Roland  wrapped  the  blanket  carefully  about  the 
body  so  that  it  would  not  freeze  to  the  ground.  Then 
they  entered  the  cabin.  Tlie  Missioner  threw  off  his  coat 
end  built  up  the  fire.    When  he  turned  he  seemed  to 


132     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE 

notice  for  tlie  first  time  the  deathly  pallor  m  David  * 
face. 

"It  shocked  you — ^when  you  found  it  there,"  he  said. 
**UghI  I  don't  wonder.  ButI  .  .  .  David,  I  didn't 
tell  you  I  was  expecting  something  like  this.  I  have 
feared  for  Tavish.  And  to-night  when  the  dogs  and 
Mukoki  signalled  death  I  was  alarmed — until  we  found  the 
fire  in  the  stove.  It  didn't  seem  reasonable  then.  I 
thought  Tavish  would  return.  The  dogs  were  gone,  too 
He  must  have  freed  them  just  before  he  went  out  there. 
Terrible!  But  justice — ^justice,  I  suppose.  God  some- 
times works  His  ends  in  queer  ways,  doesn't  He?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  David,  again  fighting  that 
thickening  in  his  throat.  "TeU  me.  Father!  I  must 
know.     Why  did  he  kiU  himself?" 

His  hand  was  clutching  at  his  breast,  where  the  picture 
lay.  He  wanted  to  tear  it  out,  in  this  moment,  and 
demand  of  Father  Roland  whether  this  was  the  face — 
the  girl's  face — that  had  haunted  Tavish. 

"I  mean  that  his  fear  drove  him  at  last  to  kill  himself," 
said  Father  Roland  in  a  slow,  sure  voice,  as  if  carefully 
weighing  his  words  before  speaking  them.  "I  believe, 
now,  that  he  terribly  wronged  some  one,  that  his  con- 
science was  his  fear,  and  that  it  haunted  him  by  bringing 
up  visions  and  voices  until  it  drove  him  finally  to  pay  his 
debt.  And  up  here  conscience  is  miioo  aye  chikoon — ^the 
little  Brother  of  God.  That  is  all  I  know.  I  wish 
Tavish  had  confided  in  me.  I  might  have  saved 
him." 

"Or — ^punished,"  breathed  David. 

"My  business  is  not  to  punish.    If  he  had  oome  to 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     13S 

me,  asking  help  for  himself  and  mercy  from  his  Grod,  I 
could  not  have  betrayed  him." 

He  was  putting  on  his  coat  again. 

"I  am  going  after  Mukoki,"  he  said.  "There  is  work 
to  be  done,  and  we  may  as  well  get  through  with  it  by 
moonlight.     I  don't  suppose  you  feel  like  sleep?  " 

David  shook  his  head.  He  was  calmer  now,  quite 
recovered  from  the  first  horror  of  his  shock,  when  the  door 
closed  behind  Father  Roland.  In  the  thoughts  that  were 
swiftly  readjusting  themselves  in  his  mind  there  was  no 
very  great  sympathy  for  the  man  who  had  hanged  himself. 
In  place  of  that  sympathy  the  oppression  of  a  thing  that 
was  greater  than  disappointment  settled  upon  him  heavily, 
driving  from  him  his  own  personal  dread  of  this  night's 
ghastly  adventure,  and  adding  to  his  suspense  of  the  last 
forty-eight  hours  a  hopelessness  the  poignancy  of  which 
was  almost  like  that  of  a  physical  pain.  Tavish  was  dead, 
and  in  dying  he  had  taken  with  him  the  secret  for  which 
David  would  have  paid  with  all  he  was  worth  in  this  hour. 
In  his  despair,  as  he  stood  there  alone  in  the  cabin,  he 
muttered  something  to  himself.  The  desire  possessed 
him  to  cry  out  aloud  that  Tavish  had  cheated  him.  A 
strange  kind  of  rage  burned  within  him  and  he  turned 
toward  the  door,  with  clenched  hands,  as  if  about  to  rush 
out  and  choke  from  the  dead  man's  throat  what  he  wanted 
to  know,  and  force  his  glazed  and  staring  eyes  to  look  for 
just  one  instant  on  the  face  of  the  girl  in  the  picture. 
In  another  moment  his  brain  had  cleared  itself  of  that 
insane  fire.  After  all,  would  Tavish  kill  himself  without 
leaving  something  behind?  Would  there  not  be  some 
kind  of  an  explanation,  written  by  Tavish  before  he  took 


134     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

the  final  step?  A  confession?  A  letter  to  Father  Roland? 
Tavish  knew  that  the  Missioner  would  stop  at  his  cabin 
on  his  return  into  the  North.  Surely  he  would  not  kill 
himself  without  leaving  some  work  for  him — at  least  a 
brief  accounting  for  his  act! 

He  began  looking  about  the  cabin  again,  swiftly  and 
eagerly  at  first,  for  if  Tavish  had  written  anything  ho 
would  beyond  all  doubt  have  placed  the  paper  in  some 
conspicuous  place:  pinned  it  at  the  end  of  his  bimk,  or  on 
the  wall,  or  against  the  door.  They  might  have  over- 
looked it,  or  possibly  it  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  To  make 
his  search  surer  David  lowered  the  lamp  from  its  bracket 
in  the  ceiling  and  carried  it  in  his  hand.  He  went  into  dark 
comers,  scrutinized  the  floor  as  well  as  the  walls,  and  moved 
garments  from  their  wooden  pegs.  There  was  nothing 
Tavish  had  cheated  him  again!  His  eyes  rested  finally 
on  the  chest.  He  placed  the  lamp  on  a  stool,  and  tried 
the  Ud.  It  was  unlocked.  As  he  lifted  it  he  heard  voices 
indistinctly  outside.  Father  Rolaind  had  returned  with 
Mukoki.  He  could  hear  them  as  they  went  to  where 
Tavish  was  lying  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the  moon. 

On  his  knees  he  began  pawing  over  the  stuff  in  the 
chest.  It  was  a  third  filled  with  odds  and  ends — ^httle 
else  but  trash;  tangled  ends  of  babichey  a  few  rusted  tooU, 
nails  and  bolts,  a  pair  of  half-worn  shoe  packs — a  mere 
litter  of  disappointing  rubbish.  The  door  opened  behin<J 
him  as  he  was  rising  to  his  feet.  He  turned  to  face 
Mukoki  and  the  Missioner. 

"There  is  nothing,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  that  took 
in  the  room.     "He  hasn't  left  any  word  that  I  can  find." 

Father  Roland  had  not  closed  the  door. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     135 

"Mukoki  will  help  you  search.  Look  in  his  cloth- 
ing on  the  wall.  Tavish  must  surely  have  left — some- 
thing." 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door  behind  him.  For  a 
moment  he  Hstened  to  make  sure  that  David  was  not  going 
to  follow  him.  He  hurried  then  to  the  body  of  Tavish, 
and  stripped  off  the  blanket.  The  dead  man  was  terrible 
to  look  at,  with  his  open  glassy  eyes  and  his  distorted  face, 
and  the  moonlight  gleaming  on  his  grinning  teeth.  The 
Missioner  shuddered. 

"I  can't  guess,"  he  whispered,  as  if  speaking  to  Tavish. 
"I  can't  guess — quite — ^what  made  you  do  it,  Tavish. 
But  you  haven't  died  without  telling  me.  I  know  it  It's 
there — in  your  pocket." 

He  listened  again,  and  his  lips  moved.  He  bent  over 
him,  on  one  knee,  and  averted  his  eyes  as  he  searched  the 
pockets  of  Tavish's  heavy  coat.  Against  the  dead  man's 
breast  he  found  it,  neatly  folded,  about  the  size  of  foolscap 
paper — several  pages  of  it,  he  judged,  by  the  thickness  of 
the  packet.  It  was  tied  with  fine  threads  of  babichcy  and 
in  the  moonlight  he  could  make  out  quite  distinctly  the 
words,  "For  Father  Roland,  God's  Lake — ^Personal." 
Tavish,  after  all,  had  not  made  himself  the  victim  of  sudden 
fright,  of  a  momentary  madness.  He  had  planned  the 
affair  in  a  quite  business-Hke  way.  Premeditated  it  with 
considerable  precision,  in  fact,  and  yet  in  the  end  he  had 
died  with  that  stare  of  horror  and  madness  in  his  face. 
Father  Roland  spread  the  blanket  over  him  again  after  he 
had  placed  the  packet  in  his  own  coat.  He  knew  where 
Tavish's  pick  and  shovel  were  hanging  at  the  back  of  the 
cabin  and  he  brought  these  tools  and  placed  them  be- 


136     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

side  the  body.  After  that  he  rejoined  David  and  the 
Cree. 

They  were  still  searching,  and  finding  nothing. 

"I  have  been  looking  through  his  clothes — out  there,'* 
said  the  Missioner,  with  a  shuddering  gestm-e  which  in- 
timated that  his  task  had  been  as  fruitless  as  their  own. 
"We  may  as  well  bury  him.  A  shallow  grave,  close  to 
where  his  body  hes.  I  have  placed  a  pick  and  a  shovel  on 
the  spot."  He  spoke  to  David:  "Would  you  mind  help- 
ing Mukoki  to  dig?  I  would  like  to  be  alone  for  a  little 
while.     You  understand.    There  are  things    .    .     ." 

"I  understand.  Father." 

For  the  first  time  David  felt  something  of  the  awe  of  this 
thing  that  was  death.  He  had  forgotten,  almost,  that 
Father  Roland  was  a  servant  of  God,  so  vitally  human  had 
he  found  him,  so  unlike  all  other  men  of  his  calling  he  had 
ever  known.  But  it  was  impressed  upon  him  now,  as  he 
followed  Mukoki.  Father  Roland  wanted  to  be  alone. 
Perhaps  to  pray.  To  ask  mercy  for  Tavish's  soul.  To 
plead  for  its  guidance  into  the  Great  Unknown.  The 
thought  quieted  his  own  emotions,  and  as  he  began  to  dig 
in  the  hard  snow  and  frozen  earth  he  tried  to  think  of 
Tavish  as  a  man,  and  not  as  a  monster. 

In  the  cabin  Father  Roland  waited  until  he  heard  the 
beat  of  the  pick  before  he  moved.  Then  he  fastened  the 
cabin  door  with  a  wooden  bolt  and  sat  himself  down  at  the 
table,  with  the  lamp  close  to  his  bent  head  and  Tavish's 
confession  in  his  hands.  He  cut  the  baMche  threads  with 
his  knife,  imfolded  the  sheets  of  paper  and  began  to  read, 
while  Tavish's  mice  nosed  slyly  out  of  their  murky  corners 
rondering  at  the  new  and  sudden  stillness  in  the  cabin  and. 


THE  COUKAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE     137 

it  may  be,  stirred  into  restlessness  by  the  absence  of  their 
master. 


The  ground  under  the  snow  was  discouragingly  hard. 
To  David  the  digging  of  the  grave  seemed  hke  chipping  out 
bits  of  flint  from  a  soHd  block,  and  he  soon  tiu-ned  over  the 
pick  to  Mukoki.  Alternately  they  worked  for  an  hour, 
and  each  time  that  the  Cree  took  his  place  David  wondered 
what  was  keeping  the  Missioner  so  long  in  the  cabin.  At 
last  Mukoki  intimated  with  a  sweep  of  his  hands  and  a 
hunch  of  his  shoulders  that  their  work  was  done.  The 
grave  looked  very  shallow  to  David,  and  he  was  about  to 
protest  against  his  companion's  judgment  when  it  occurred 
to  him  that  Mukoki  had  probably  digged  many  holes  such 
as  this  in  the  earth,  and  had  helped  to  fill  them  again,  so  it 
was  possible  he  knew  his  business.  After  all,  why  did 
people  weigh  down  one's  last  slumber  with  six  feet  of  soil 
overhead  when  three  or  four  would  leave  one  nearer  to  the 
sun,  and  make  not  quite  so  chill  a  bed?  He  was  thinking 
of  this  as  he  took  a  last  look  at  Tavish.  Then  he  heard 
the  Indian  give  a  sudden  grunt,  as  if  some  one  had  poked 
him  unexpectedly  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach.  He  whirled 
about,  and  stared. 

Father  Roland  stood  within  ten  feet  of  them,  and  at 
sight  of  him  an  exclamation  rose  to  David's  lips  and  died 
there  in  an  astonished  gasp.  He  seemed  to  be  swaying, 
like  a  sick  man,  in  the  moonlight,  and  impelled  by  the 
same  thought  Mukoki  and  David  moved  toward  him. 
The  Missioner  extended  an  arm,  as  if  to  hold  them  back. 
His  face  was  ghastly,  and  terrible — almost  as  terrible  as 


138     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Tavish's,  and  he  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  something 
in  his  throat  before  he  could  speak.  Then  he  said,  in  a 
strange,  forced  voice  that  David  had  never  heard  come 
from  his  lips  before : 

"Bury  him.     There  will  be — no  prayer." 
He  turned  away,  moving  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
forest.    And  as  he  went  David  noticed  the  heavy  drag  ot 
his  feet,  and  the  unevenness  of  his  trail  in  the  snow. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FOR  two  or  three  minutes  after  Father  Roland  had 
disappeared  in  the  forest  David  and  Mukoki  stood 
without  moving.  Amazed  and  a  Kttle  stunned  by 
the  change  they  had  seen  in  the  Missioner's  ghastly  face, 
and  perplexed  by  the  strangeness  of  his  voice  and  the  un- 
steadiness of  his  walk  as  he  had  gone  away  from  them,  they 
looked  exi>ectantly  for  him  to  return  out  of  the  shadows  of 
the  timber.  His  last  words  had  come  to  them  with  metal- 
lic hardness,  and  their  effect,  in  a  way,  had  been  rather 
appalling:  "There  will  be — ^no  prayier."  Why?  The 
question  was  in  Mukoki's  gleaming,  narrow  eyes  as  he 
faced  the  dark  spruce,  and  it  was  on  David's  lips  as 
he  turned  at  last  to  look  at  the  Cree.  There  was  to 
be  no  prayer  for  Tavish!  David  felt  himself  shudder- 
ing, when  suddenly,  breaking  the  silence  like  a  sinister 
cackle,  an  exultant  exclamation  burst  from  the  Indian, 
as  though,  all  at  once,  understanding  had  dawned 
upon  him.  He  pointed  to  the  dead  man,  his  eyes  widen- 
ing. 

"Tavish — ^he  great  devil,"  he  said.  "Jfon  Pere  make 
no  prayer.  Mey-oo  I "  and  he  grinned  in  triumph,  for  had 
he  not,  during  all  these  months,  told  his  master  that  Tavish 
was  a  devil,  and  that  his  cabin  was  filled  with  little  devils? 
^*Mey-oo,"  he  cried  again,  louder  than  before.  "A  devil!" 
and  with  a  swift,  vengeful  movement  he  sprang  to  Tavisli* 

139 


140     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

caught  him  by  his  moccasined  feet,  and  to  David's  horror 
flung  him  fiercely  into  the  shallow  grave.  "A  devil!"  he 
croaked  again,  and  like  a  madman  began  throwing  in  thp 
frozen  earth  upon  the  body. 

David  turned  away,  sickened  by  the  thud  of  the  body 
and  the  fall  of  the  clods  on  its  upturned  face — ^for  he  had 
caught  a  last  unpleasant  glimpse  of  the  face,  and  it  was 
staring  and  grinning  up  at  the  stars.  A  feeling  of  dread 
followed  him  into  the  cabin.  He  filled  the  stove,  and  sat 
down  to  wait  for  Father  Roland.  It  was  a  long  wait. 
He  heard  Mukoki  go  away.  The  mice  rustled  about  him 
again.  An  hour  had  passed  when  he  heard  a  sound  at  the 
door,  a  scraping  sound,  like  the  peculiar  drag  of  claws  over 
wood,  and  a  moment  later  it  was  followed  by  a  whine  that 
came  to  him  faintly.  He  opened  the  door  slowly.  Baree 
stood  just  outside  the  threshold.  He  had  given  him  two 
fish  at  noon,  so  he  knew  that  it  was  not  hunger  that  had 
brought  the  dog  to  the  cabin.  Some  mysterious  instinct 
had  told  him  that  David  was  alone;  he  wanted  to  come 
in;  his  yearning  gleamed  in  his  eyes  as  he  stood  there  stiff- 
legged  in  the  moonHght.  David  held  out  a  hand,  on  thtj 
point  of  enticing  him  through  the  door,  when  he  heard  the 
soft  crunching  of  feet  in  the  snow.  A  gray  shadow,  swift 
as  the  wind,  Baree  disappeared.  David  scarcely  knew 
when  he  went.  He  was  looking  into  the  face  of  Father 
Roland.  He  backed  into  the  cabin,  without  speaking,  and 
the  Missioner  entered.  He  was  smiling.  He  had,  to  an 
extent,  recovered  himself.  He  threw  off  his  mittens  and 
rasped  his  hands  over  the  fire  in  an  effort  at  cheerfulness. 
But  there  was  something  forced  in  his  manner,  something 
that  he  was  making  a  terrific  fight  to  keep  under.    He  was 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     141 

JSke  one  who  had  been  in  great  mental  stress  for  many  days 
instead  of  a  single  hour.  His  eyes  burned  with  the 
smouldering  glow  of  a  fever;  his  shoulders  hung  loosely 
as  though  he  had  lost  the  strength  to  hold  them  erect; 
he  shivered,  David  noticed,  even  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  and 
ismiled. 

"Curious  how  this  has  affected  me,  David,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "It  is  incredible,  this  weakness  of  mine. 
I  have  seen  death  many  scores  of  times,  and  yet  I  could 
not  go  and  look  on  his  face  again.  Inci-edible!  Yet  it  is 
so.  I  am  anxious  to  get  away.  Mukoki  will  soon  be 
coming  with  the  dogs.  A  devil,  Mukoki  says.  Well, 
perhaps.  A  strange  man  at  best.  We  must  forget  this 
night.  It  has  been  an  unpleasant  introduction  for  you 
into  our  North.  We  must  forget  it.  We  must  forget 
Tavish."  And  then,  as  if  he  had  omitted  a  fact  of  some 
importance,  he  added;  "I  will  kneel  at  his  graveside 
Ibefore  we  go." 

"If  he  had  only  waited,"  said  David,  scarcely  knowing 
what  words  he  was  speaking,  "if  he  had  waited  until 
to-morrow,  only,  or  the  next  day    •     •    ." 

"Yes;  if  he  had  waited!" 

The  Missioner's  eyes  narrowed.  David  heard  the  click 
<5f  his  jaws  as  he  dropped  his  head  so  that  his  face  was 
flidden. 

"If  he  had  waited,"  he  repeated,  after  David,  "if  he 
had  only  waited!"  And  his  hands,  spread  out  fan-like 
over  the  stove,  closed  slowly  and  rigidly  as  if  gripping  at 
the  throat  of  something. 

"I  have  friends  up  in  that  country  he  came  from," 
David  forced  himself  to  say,  "and  I  had  hoped  he  would 


142     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

be  able  to  tell  me  something  about  them.  He  must  have 
iaiown  them,  or  heard  of  them/' 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  Missioner,  still  looking  at  the 
top  of  the  stove,  and  unclenching  his  fingers  as  slowly  as 
he  had  drawn  them  together,  "but  he  is  dead.*' 

There  was  a  note  of  finaUty  in  his  voice,  a  sudden  forceful- 
ness  of  meaning  as  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  David. 

"Dead,"  he  repeated,  "and  buried.  We  are  no  longer 
privileged  even  to  guess  at  what  he  might  have  said.  As 
I  told  you  once  before,  David,  I  am  not  a  Cathohc,  nor  a 
Church-of-England  man,  nor  of  any  religion  that  wears 
a  name,  and  yet  I  accepted  a  httle  of  them  aU  into  my 
own  creed.  A  wandering  Missioner — ^and  I  am  such  a 
one — must  obliterate  to  an  extent  his  own  deep-souled 
convictions  and  accept  indulgently  aU  articles  of  Christian 
faith;  and  there  is  one  law,  above  all  others,  which  he 
must  hold  inviolate.  He  must  not  pry  into  the  past  of  the 
dead,  nor  speak  aloud  the  secrets  of  the  living.  Let  us 
forget  Tavish." 

His  words  sounded  a  knell  in  David's  heart.  If  he  had 
hoped  that  Father  Roland  would,  at  the  very  last,  tell  him 
something  more  about  Tavish,  that  hope  was  now  gone. 
The  Missioner  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  gentle, 
and  he  came  to  David  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  a 
father  might  have  done  with  a  son.  He  had  placed  him- 
self, in  this  moment,  beyond  the  reach  of  any  questions 
that  might  have  been  in  David's  mind.  With  eyes  and 
touch  that  spoke  a  deep  affection  he  had  raised  a  barrier 
between  them  as  inviolable  as  that  law  of  his  creed  which 
he  had  just  mentioned.  And  with  it  had  come  a  bettei 
understanding. 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     US 

David  was  glad  that  Mukoki's  voice  and  the  commotion 
*)f  the  dogs  came  to  interrupt  them.  They  gathered  up 
hurriedly  the  few  things  they  had  brought  into  the  cabin 
and  carried  them  to  the  sledge.  David  did  not  enter 
the  cabin  again  but  stood  with  the  dogs  in  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  while  Father  Roland  made  his  promised  visit  to 
the  grave.  Mukoki  followed  him,  and  as  the  Missioner 
stood  over  the  dark  mound  in  the  snow,  David  saw  the 
Cree  slip  like  a  shadow  into  the  cabin,  where  a  light  was 
still  burning.  Then  he  noticed  that  Father  Roland  was 
kneeling,  and  a  moment  later  the  Indian  came  out  of  the 
cabin  quietly,  and  without  looking  back  joined  him  near 
the  dogs.    They  waited. 

Over  Tavish's  grave  Father  Roland's  lips  were  naoving^ 
and  out  of  his  mouth  strange  words  came  in  a  low  and 
unemotional  voice  that  was  not  much  above  a  wliisper : 

"...  and  I  thank  God  that  you  did  not  tell  me 
before  you  died,  Tavish,"  he  was  saying.  "I  thank  God 
for  that.     For  if  you  had — I  would  have  killed  you  I " 

As  he  came  back  to  them  David  noticed  a  flickering  of 
tight  in  the  cabin,  as  though  the  lamp  was  sputtering  and 
about  to  go  out.  They  put  on  their  snow  shoes,  and  with 
Mukoki  breaking  the  trail  buried  themselves  in  the  moon- 
lit forest. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  halted  on  the  summit  of  a 
second  ridge.  The  Cree  looked  back  and  pointed  with 
an  exultant  cry.  Where  the  cabin  had  been  a  red  flare  of 
flame  was  rising  above  the  tree  tops.  David  understood 
what  the  flickering  hght  in  the  cabin  had  meant.  Mukoki 
had  spilled  Tavish*s  kerosene  and  had  touched  a  match 
to  it  so  that  the  little  devils  might  follow  their  master  into 


144     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

the  black  abyss.    He  almost  fancied  he  could  hear  the 
agonized  squeaking  of  Tavish*s  pets. 


Straight  northward,  through  the  white  moonlight  of 
that  night,  Mukoki  broke  their  trail,  travelling  at  times  so 
swiftly  that  the  Missioner  commanded  him  to  slacken  his 
pace  on  David's  account.  Even  David  did  not  think  of 
stopping.  He  had  no  desire  to  stop  so  long  as  their  way 
was  Hghted  ahead  of  them.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
world  was  becoming  brighter  and  the  forest  gloom  less 
cheerless  as  they  dropped  that  evil  valley  of  Tavish's 
farther  and  farther  behind  them.  Then  the  moon  began 
to  fade,  hke  a  great  lamp  that  had  burned  itself  out  of  oil, 
and  darkness  swept  over  them  like  huge  wings.  It  was 
two  o'clock  when  they  camped  and  built  a  fire. 

So,  day  after  day,  they  continued  into  the  North.  At 
the  end  of  his  tenth  day — ^the  sixth  after  leaving  Tavish's 
— ^David  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  a  stranger  in  the  coun- 
try of  the  big  snows.  He  did  not  say  as  much  to  Father 
Roland,  for  to  express  such  a  thought  to  one  who  had  Hved 
there  all  his  life  seemed  to  him  to  be  little  less  than  a  bit 
of  sheer  imbecility.  Ten  days!  That  was  all,  and  yet 
they  might  have  been  ten  months,  or  as  many  years  for 
that  matter,  so  completely  had  they  changed  him.  He  was 
not  thinking  of  himself  physically — not  a  day  passed  that 
Father  Roland  did  not  point  out  some  fresh  triumph  for 
him  there.  His  limbs  were  nearly  as  tireless  as  the  Mis- 
sioner*s;  he  knew  that  he  was  growing  heavier;  and  he 
could  at  last  chop  through  a  tree  without  winding  himself. 
These  things  his  companions  could  see.    His  appetite  was 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     145 

voracious.  His  eyes  were  keen  and  his  hands  steady,  so 
that  he  was  doing  splendid  practice  shooting  with  both 
rifle  and  pistol,  and  each  day  when  the  Missioner  insisted 
on  their  bout  with  the  gloves  he  found  it  more  and  more 
difficult  to  hold  himseK  in.  "Not  so  hard,  David," 
Father  Roland  frequently  cautioned  him,  and  in  place  of 
the  first  joyous  grin  th«*e  was  always  a  look  of  settled 
anxiety  in  Mukoki's  face  as  he  watched  them.  The  more 
David  pummelled  him,  the  greater  was  the  Little  Mis« 
sioner's  triumph.  "I  told  you  what  this  north  country 
could  do  for  you,"  was  his  exultant  slogan;  "  I  told  you ! " 

Once  David  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  that  he  could 
st>e  only  the  tenth  part  of  what  it  had  done  for  him,  but 
tlie  old  shame  held  his  tongue.  He  did  not  want  to  bring 
up  the  old  story.  The  fact  that  it  had  existed,  and  had 
Written  itself  out  in  human  passion,  remained  with  him 
still  as  a  personal  and  humiliating  degradation.  It  was 
like  a  scar  on  his  own  body,  a  repulsive  sore  which  he 
wished  to  keep  out  of  sight,  even  from  the  eyes  of  the  man 
who  had  been  his  salvation.  The  growth  of  this  revulsion 
within  him  had  kept  pace  with  his  physical  improvement, 
and  if  at  the  end  of  these  ten  days  Father  Roland  had 
spoken  of  the  woman  who  had  betrayed  him — the  woman 
who  had  been  his  wife — he  would  have  turned  the  key  on 
that  subject  as  decisively  as  the  Missioner  had  banred 
further  conversation  or  conjecture  about  Tavish.  This 
was,  perhaps,  the  best  evidence  that  he  had  cut  out  the 
cancer  in  his  breast.  The  Golden  Goddess,  whom  he  had 
thought  an  angel,  he  now  saw  stripped  of  her  glory.  If  she 
had  repented  in  that  room,  if  she  had  betrayed  fear  even, 
«  single  emotion  of  mental  agony,  he  would  not  have  felt 


146     THE  COUKAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE 

so  sure  of  himself.  But  she  had  laughed.  She  wa^,  like 
Tavish,  a  devil.  He  thought  of  her  beauty  now  as  that  of  a 
poisonous  flower.  He  had  unwittingly  touched  such  a 
flower  once,  a  flower  of  wonderful  waxen  lovehness,  and 
it  had  produced  a  pustular  eruption  on  his  hand.  She 
was  like  that.  Poisonous.  Treacherous.  A  creature  with 
as  little  soul  as  that  flower  had  perfume.  It  was  this 
change  in  him,  in  his  conception  and  his  memory  of  her, 
that  he  would  have  given  much  to  have  Father  Roland 
understand. 

Duriug  this  period  of  his  own  transformation  he  had 
observed  a  curious  change  in  Father  Roland.  At  times, 
after  leaving  Tavish's  cabin,  the  Little  Missioner  seemed 
struggling  under  the  weight  of  a  deep  and  gloomy  oppres- 
sion. Once  or  twice,  in  the  firelight,  it  had  looked  almost 
like  sickness,  and  David  had  seen  his  face  grow  wan  and 
old.  Always  after  these  fits  of  dejection  there  would 
follow  a  reaction,  and  for  hours  the  Missioner  would  be  Hke 
•one  upon  whom  had  fallen  a  new  and  sudden  happiness. 
As  day  added  itself  to  day,  and  night  to  night,  the  periods 
of  depression  became  shorter  and  less  frequent,  and  at  last 
Father  Roland  emerged  from  them  altogether,  as  though 
he  had  been  fighting  a  great  fight,  and  had  won.  There 
was  a  new  lustre  in  his  eyes.  David  wondered  whether 
it  was  a  trick  of  his  imagination  that  made  him  think  the 
lines  in  the  Missioner's  face  were  not  so  deep,  that  he 
stood  straighter,  and  that  there  was  at  times  a  deep  and 
vibrant  note  ia  his  voice  which  he  had  not  heard  before. 

During  these  days  David  was  trying  hard  to  make 
himself  behev^  that  no  reasonable  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances could  have  associated  Tavish  with  the  girl 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     147 

whose  picture  he  kept  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 
He  succeeded  in  a  way.  He  tried  also  to  dissociate  the 
face  in  the  picture  from  a  Uving  personaHty.  In  this  he 
failed.  More  and  more  the  picture  became  a  living  thing 
for  him.  He  found  a  great  comfort  in  his  possession  of  it. 
He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  keep  it,  and  that  its 
sweet  face,  always  on  the  point  of  speaking  to  him,  should 
go  with  him  wherever  he  went,  guiding  him  in  a  way — a 
comjMinion.  He  found  that,  in  hours  when  the  darkness 
and  the  emptiness  of  his  life  oppressed  him,  the  face  gave 
him  new  hope,  and  he  saw  new  Hght.  He  ceased  to  think 
of  it  as  a  picture,  and  one  night,  speaking  half  aloud,  he 
called  her  Little  Sister.  She  seemed  nearer  to  him  after 
that.  Unconsciously  his  hand  learned  the  habit  of  going 
to  his  breast  pocket  when  they  were  travelling,  to  make  sure 
that  she  was  there.  He  would  have  suffered  physical 
torment  before  he  would  have  confided  all  this  to  any 
Hving  soul,  but  the  secret  thought  that  was  growing  more 
and  more  in  his  heart  he  told  to  Baree.  The  dog  came  into 
their  camps  now,  but  not  until  the  Missioner  and  Mukoki 
had  gone  to  bed.  He  would  cringe  down  near  David's 
feet,  lying  there  motionless,  obUvious  of  the  other  dogs  and 
showing  no  inclination  to  disturb  them.  He  was  there  on 
the  tenth  night,  looking  steadily  at  David  with  his  two 
bloodshot  eyes,  wondering  what  it  was  that  his  master 
held  in  his  hands.  From  the  lips  and  eyes  of  the  Girl, 
trembhng  and  aglow  in  the  firehght,  David  looked  at  Baree. 
In  the  bloodshot  eyes  he  saw  the  immeasurable  faith  of  an 
adoring  slave.  He  knew  that  Baree  would  never  leave 
him.  And  the  Girl,  looking  at  him  as  steadily  as  Bare^ 
would  never  leave  him.    There  was  a  tremendous  thrill  ir. 


148     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE 

the  thought.  He  leaned  over  the  dog,  and  with  a  tremu* 
lous  stir  in  his  voice,  he  whi^)ered : 

"Some  day,  boy,  we  may  go  to  her." 

Baree  shivered  with  joy.  David's  voice,  whispering  to 
him  in  that  way,  was  like  a  caress,  and  he  whined  softly  as 
he  crept  an  inch  or  two  nearer  to  his  master's  feet. 

That  night  Father  Roland  was  restless.  Hom^  latert 
when  he  was  lying  snug  and  warm  in  his  own  blankets, 
David  heard  him  get  up,  and  watched  him  as  he  scraped 
together  the  burned  embers  dP  the  fire  and  added  fresh  fuel 
to  them.  The  flap  of  the  tent  was  back  a  little,  so  that  he 
could  see  plainly.  It  could  not  have  been  later  than  mid- 
night. The  Missioner  was  fully  dressed,  and  as  the  fire 
burned  brighter  David  could  see  the  ruddy  glow  of  his  face, 
and  it  struck  him  that  it  looked  singularly  boyish  in  the 
flame-glow.  He  did  not  guess  what  was  keeping  the 
Missioner  awake  until  a  little  later  he  heard  him  among  the 
dogs,  and  his  voice  came  to  him,  low  and  exultingly,  and  as 
boyish  as  his  face  had  seemed:  "We'll  be  home  to-mor- 
row, boys — hoTneT'  That  word — ^home — sounded  oddly 
enough  to  David  up  here  three  hundred  miles  from  civili- 
zation. He  fancied  that  he  heard  the  dogs  shufl3ing  in  the 
snow,  and  the  satisfied  rasping  of  their  master's  hands. 

Father  Roland  did  not  return  into  the  tent  again  that 
night.  David  fell  asleep,  but  was  roused  for  breakfast  at 
three  o'clock,  and  they  were  away  before  it  was  yet  light. 
Through  the  morning  darkness  Mukoki  led  the  way  as 
unerringly  as  a  fox,  for  he  was  now  on  his  own  ground. 
As  dawn  came,  with  a  promise  of  sun,  David  wondered  in 
a  whimsical  sort  of  way  whether  his  companions,  both 
dogs  and  men,  were  going  mad.    He  had  not  as  yet  cjk 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MaRGE  O'DOONE     140 

perienced  the  joy  and  excitement  of  a  northern  home* 
coming,  nor  had  he  dreamed  that  it  .was  possible  for  Mu" 
koki's  leathern  face  to  break  into  wild  jubilation.  As  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  shot  over  the  forests,  he  began,  all  at 
once,  to  sing,  in  a  low,  chanting  voice  that  grew  steadily 
louder;  and  as  he  sang  he  kept  time  in  a  curious  way  with 
his  hands.  He  did  not  slacken  his  pace,  but  kept  steadily 
on,  and  suddenly  the  Little  Missioner  joined  him  in  a  voice 
that  rang  out  like  the  blare  of  a  bugle.  To  David's  ears 
there  was  something  familiar  in  that  song  as  it  rose  wildly 
on  the  morning  air. 

"Pa  sho  ke  non  ze  koon, 

Ta  ba  nin  ga. 
Ah  no  go  suh  nuh  guk, 

Na  quash  kuh  mon; 
Na  guh  mo  yah  nin  koo. 
Pa  sho  ke  non  ze  koon. 
Pa  sho  ke  non  ze  koon, 

Ta  ba  nin  go." 

"Y^hat  is  it?"  he  asked,  when  Father  Roland  dropped 
back  to  his  side,  smiling  and  breathing  deeply.  "  It  sound* 
like  a  Chinese  puzzle,  and  yet     .     .     ." 

The  Missioner  laughed.  Mukoki  had  ended  a  second 
verse. 

"Twenty  years  ago,  when  I  first  knew  Mukoki,  he  wo'ild 
chant  nothing  but  Indian  legends  to  the  beat  of  a  tom- 
tom," he  explained.  "  Since  I've  had  him  he  has  developed 
«  passion  for  ^mission  singing' — ^for  hymns.  That  was 
^Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.'" 

Mukoki,  gathering  wind,  had  begun  again. 

** That's  his  favourite."  explained  Father  Roland.     **At 


150     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

times,  when  he  is  alone,  he  will  chant  it  by  the  hour.  He 
is  delighted  when  I  join  in  with  him.  It's  *From  Green- 
land's Icy  Mountains.' " 

"Ke  wa  de  noong  a  yah  jig, 

Kuh  ya  'gewh  wah  bun  oong, 
E  gewh  an  duh  nuh  ke  jig, 
E  we  de  ke  zhah  tag, 
Kuh  ya  puh  duh  ke  woo  waud 

Palm  e  nuh  sah  wunzh  eeg, 
Ke  nun  doo  me  goo  nah  nig 

Che  shuh  wa  ne  mung  wah." 

At  first  David  had  felt  a  slight  desire  to  laugh  at  the 
Cree's  odd  chanting  and  the  grotesque  movement  of  his 
hands  and  arms,  like  two  pump  handles  in  slow  and  rhyth- 
mic action,  as  he  kept  time.  This  desire  did  not  come  to 
him  again  during  the  day.  He  remembered,  long  years  ago, 
hearing  his  mother  sing  those  old  hymns  in  his  boyhood 
home.  He  could  see  the  ancient  melodeon  with  its  yellow 
keys,  and  the  ragged  hymn  book  his  mother  had  prized 
next  to  her  Bible;  and  he  could  hear  again  her  sweet, 
quavering  voice  sing  those  gentle  songs,  like  unforgettable 
benedictions — the  same  songs  that  Mukoki  and  the 
Missioner  were  chanting  now,  up  here,  a  thousand  miles 
away.  That  was  a  long  time  ago — ^a  very,  very  long  time 
ago.  She  had  been  dead  many  years.  And  he — ^he  must 
be  growing  old.  Thirty-eight!  And  he  was  nine  then, 
with  slender  legs  and  tousled  hair,  and  a  worship  for  his 
mother  that  had  mellowed  and  perhaps  saddened  his  whole 
life.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  But  the  gongs  had  lived. 
They  must  be  known  over  the  wh©le  world — those  songs 
his  mother  used  to  sing.     He  began  to  join  in  where  he 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MAEGE  O^DOONE     151 

could  catch  the  tunes,  and  his  voice  sounded  strange  and 
broken  and  unreal  to  him,  for  it  was  a  long  time  since  those 
boyhood  days,  and  he  had  not  lifted  it  in  song  since  he  had 
sung  then — with  his  mother. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  they  came  to  the  Missioner's 
home  on  God's  Lake.  It  was  almost  a  chateau,  David 
thought  when  he  first  saw  it,  built  of  massive  logs.  Be- 
yond it  there  was  a  smaller  building,  also  built  of  logs,  and 
toward  this  Mukoki  hurried  with  the  dogs  and  the  sledge. 
He  heard  the  welcoming  cries  of  Mukoki*s  family  and  the 
excited  barking  of  dogs  as  he  followed  Father  Roland  into 
the  big  cabin.  It  was  lighted,  and  warm.  Evidently 
some  one  had  been  keeping  it  in  readiness  for  the  Mission- 
er's  return.  They  entered  into  a  bigiroom,  and  in  his  first 
glance  David  saw  three  doors  leading  from  this  room :  two 
of  them  were  open,  the  third  was  closed.  There  was 
something  very  like  a  sobbing  note  in  Father  Roland's 
voice  as  he  op>ened  his  arms  wide,  and  said  to  David: 

"Home,  David — your  home!" 

He  took  off  his  things — his  coat,  his  cap,  his  moccasins, 
and  his  thick  German  socks — and  when  he  again  spoke  to 
David  and  looked  at  him,  his  eyes  had  in  them  a  mysteri- 
ous light  and  his  words  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"You  will  forgive  me,  David — ^you  will  forgive  me  a 
weakness,  and  make  yourself  at  home — ^while  I  go  alone 
for  a  few  minutes  into     .     .     .     that     .     .     .     room? " 

He  rose  from  the  chair  on  which  he  had  seated  himself 
to  strip  off  his  moccasins  and  faced  the  closed  door.  He 
seemed  to  forget  David  after  he  had  spoken.  He  went  to 
it  slowly,  his  breath  coming  quickly,  and  whea  lie  re/idied 


152     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

it  he  drew  a  heavy  key  from  his  pocket.  He  unlocked  the 
door.  It  was  dark  inside,  and  David  could  see  nothing  as 
the  Missioner  entered.  For  many  minutes  he  sat  where 
Father  Roland  had  left  him,  staring  at  the  door. 

"A  strange  man — a  very  strange  man!"  Thoreau  had 
said.  Yes,  a  strange  man!  What  was  in  that  room? 
Why  its  unaccountable  silence?  Once  he  thought  he 
heard  a  low  cry.  For  ten  minutes  he  sat,  waiting.  And 
then — ^very  faintly  at  first,  almost  like  a  wind  soughing 
through  distant  tree  tops  and  coming  ever  nearer,  nearer, 
and  more  distinct — ^there  came  to  him  from  beyond  the 
closed  door  the  gently  subdued  music  of  a  violin. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  THE  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  this  room 
beyond  the  closed  door,  and  what  it  contained,  be- 
came to  David  more  and  more  the  great  mystery  in 
Father  Roland's  life.  It  impressed  itself  upon  him  slowly 
but  resolutely  as  the  key  to  some  tremendous  event  in  his 
life,  some  vast  secret  which  he  was  keeping  from  all  other 
human  knowledge,  unless,  perhaps,  Mukoki  was  a  silent 
sharer.  At  times  David  beUeved  this  was  so,  and  espe- 
cially after  that  day  when,  carefully  and  slowly,  and  in 
good  English,  as  though  the  Missioner  had  trained  him  in 
what  he  was  to  say,  the  Cree  said  to  him: 

"No  one  ever  goes  into  that  room,  m'sieu.  And  no 
man  has  ever  seen  mon  Pbre*s  vioHn." 

The  words  were  si>oken  in  a  low  monotone  without 
emphasis  or  emotion,  and  David  was  convinced  they  were 
a  message  from  the  Missioner,  something  Father  Roland 
wanted  him  to  know  without  speaking  the  words  himself. 
Not  again  after  that  first  night  did  he  apologize  for  his 
visits  to  the  room,  nor  did  he  ever  explain  why  the  door 
was  always  locked,  or  why  he  invariably  locked  it  after 
him  when  he  went  in.  Each  night,  when  they  were  at 
home,  he  disappeared  into  the  room,  opening  the  door 
only  enough  to  let  his  body  pass  through;  sometimes  he 
remained  there  for  only  a  few  minutes,  and  occasionally 
for  a  long  time.    At  least  once  a  day,  usually  in  the  even- 

\53 


154     THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE 

ing,  lie  played  the  violin.  It  was  always  the  same  piece 
that  he  played.  There  was  never  a  variation,  and  David 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  that  he  had  ever  heard  it 
before.  At  these  times,  if  Mukoki  happened  to  be  in  the 
Chdteau,  as  Father  Roland  called  his  place,  he  would  sit 
like  one  in  a  trance,  scarcely  breathing  until  the  music 
had  ceased.  And  when  the  Missioner  came  from  the  room 
his  face  was  always  Ht  up  in  a  kind  of  halo.  There  was  one 
exception  to  all  this,  David  noticed.  The  door  was  never 
unlocked  when  there  was  a  visitor.  No  other  but  himself 
and  Mukoki  heard  the  sound  of  the  viohn,  and  this  fact^ 
in  time,  impressed  David  with  the  deep  faith  and  affection 
of  the  Little  Missioner.  One  evening  Father  Roland 
came  from  the  room  with  his  face  aglow  with  some  strange 
happiness  that  had  come  to  him  in  there,  and  placing  his 
hands  on  David's  shoulders  he  said,  with  a  yearning  and 
yet  hopeless  inflection  in  his  voice; 

"I  wish  you  would  stay  with  me  always,  David.  It  has 
made  me  younger,  and  happier,  to  have  a  son." 

In  David  there  was  growing — ^but  concealed  from  Father 
Roland's  eyes  for  a  long  time — ^a  strange  insistent  rest- 
lessness. It  ran  in  his  blood,  Hke  a  thing  aUve,  when- 
ever he  looked  at  the  face  of  the  Girl.  He  wanted  to  go 
on. 

And  yet  life  at  the  Chateau,  after  the  first  two  weeks, 
was  anything  but  dull  and  unexciting.  They  were  in  the 
heart  of  the  great  trapping  country.  Forty  miles  to  the 
north  was  a  Hudson's  Bay  post  where  an  ordained  minister 
of  the  Church  of  England  had  a  mission.  But  Father 
Roland  belonged  to  the  forest  people  alone.  They  were 
his  "children,"  scattered  in  their  shacks  and  tepees  over 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     155 

ten  thousand  square  miles  of  country,  with  the  Chateau 
as  its  centre.  He  was  ceaselessly  on  the  move  after  that 
first  fortnight,  and  David  was  always  with  him.  The 
Indians  worshipped  him,  and  the  quarter-breeds  and  half- 
breeds  and  occasional  French  called  him  "mon  Pere'* 
in  very  much  the  same  tone  of  voice  as  they  said  "Our 
Father"  in  their  prayers.  These  people  of  the  trap-lines 
were  a  revelation  to  David.  They  were  wild,  Uving  in  a 
savage  primitiveness,  and  yet  they  reverenced  a  divinity 
with  a  conviction  that  amazed  him.  And  they  died. 
That  was  the  tragedy  of  it  They  died — too  easily.  He 
imderstood,  after  a  while,  why  a  country  ten  times  as  large 
as  the  state  of  Ohio  had  altogether  a  population  of  less 
than  twenty-five  thousand,  a  fair-sized  town.  Their  belts 
were  drawn  too  tight — men,  women,  and  little  children — 
their  belts  too  tight.  That  was  it!  Father  Roland  em- 
phasized it.  Too  much  hunger  in  the  long,  terrible  months 
of  winter,  when  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  they 
trapped  the  furred  creatures  for  the  hordes  of  luxurious 
barbarians  in  the  great  cities  of  the  earth.  Just  a  steady, 
gnawing  hunger  all  through  the  winter — ^hunger  for  some- 
thing besides  meat,  a  hunger  that  got  into  the  bones,  into 
the  eyes,  into  arms  and  legs — a  hunger  that  brought  sick- 
ness, and  then  death. 

That  winter  he  saw  grown  men  and  women  die  of 
meastes  as  easily  as  flies  that  had  devoured  poison.  They 
were  over  at  Metoosin's,  sixty  miles  to  the  west  of  the 
Chdteau,  when  Metoosin  returned  to  his  shack  with 
supplies  from  a  Post.  Metoosin  had  taken  up  lynx  and 
marten  and  mink  that  would  sell  the  next  year  in  London 
and  Paris  for  a  thousand  dollars,  and  he  had  brought  back 


156     THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE 

a  few  small  cans  of  vegetables  at  fifty  cents  a  can,  a  little 
flour  at  forty  cents  a  pound,  a  bit  of  cheap  cloth  at  the 
price  of  rare  silk,  some  tobacco  and  a  pittance  of  tea,  and 
lie  was  happy.  A  half  season's  work  on  the  trap-line 
and  his  family  could  have  eaten  it  all  in  a  week — if  they 
had  dared  to  eat  as  much  as  they  needed. 

"And  still  they're  always  in  the  debt  of  the  Posts,"  the 
Missioner  said,  the  Unes  settling  deeply  on  his  face. 

And  yet  David  could  not  but  feel  more  and  more  deeply 
the  thrill,  the  fascination,  and,  in  spite  of  its  hardships, 
the  recompense  of  this  life  of  which  he  had  become  a 
part.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  clearly  perceived 
the  primal  measiu-ements  of  riches,  of  contentmentp  and 
of  ambition,  and  these  three  things  that  he  saw  stripped 
naked  for  his  eyes  many  other  things  which  he  had  not 
understood,  or  in  blindness  had  failed  to  see,  in  the  life 
from  which  he  had  come.  Metoosin,  with  that  little 
treasure  of  food  from  the  Post,  did  not  know  that  he  was 
poor,  or  that  through  many  long  years  he  had  been  slowly 
starving.  He  was  rich!  He  was  a  great  trapper!  And 
his  Cree  wife  I-owa,  with  her  long,  sleek  braid  and  her 
great,  dark  eyes,  was  tremendously  proud  of  feer  lord,  that 
he  should  bring  home  for  her  and  the  children  such  a  wealth 
of  things — a  little  flour,  a  few  cans  of  things,  a  few  yards 
of  cloth,  and  a  little  bright  ribbon.  David  choked  when 
he  ate  with  them  that  night.  But  they  were  happy !  That, 
after  all,  was  the  reward  of  things,  even  though  people 
died  slowly  of  something  which  they  could  not  understand. 
And  there  were,  in  the  domain  of  Father  Roland,  many 
Metoosins,  and  many  I-owas,  who  prayed  for  nothing  more 
than  enough  to  eat,  clothes  to  cover  them,  and  the  ua- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     157 

broken  love  of  their  firesides.  And  David  thought  of 
them,  as  the  weeks  passed,  as  the  most  terribly  enslaved 
of  all  the  slaves  of  Civilization — slaves  of  vain  civilized 
women;  for  they  had  gone  on  like  this  for  centuries,  and 
would  go  on  for  other  generations,  giving  into  the  hands 
of  the  great  Company  their  life's  blood  which,  in  the  end, 
could  be  accounted  for  by  a  yearly  dole  of  food  which, 
under  stress,  did  not  quite  serve  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together. 

It  was  after  a  comprehension  of  these  things  that  David 
understood  Father  Roland's  great  work.  In  this  kingdom 
of  his,  running  approximately  fifty  miles  in  each  direction 
from  the  Chdteau — except  to  the  northward,  where  the 
Post  lay — there  were  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  men, 
women,  and  children.  In  a  great  book  the  Little  Missioner 
had  their  names,  their  ages,  the  blood  that  was  in  them, 
and  where  they  lived;  and  by  them  he  was  worshipped 
as  no  man  that  ever  lived  in  that  vast  country  of  cities 
and  towns  below  the  Height  of  Land.  At  every  tepee  and 
shack  they  visited  there  was  some  token  of  love  awaiting 
Father  Rob  "'id;  a  rare  skin  here,  a  pair  of  moccasins  there, 
a  pair  of  sno  v7  shoes  that  it  had  taken  an  Indian  woman's 
hands  weeks  to  make,  choice  cuts  of  meat,  but  mostly — 
as  they  travelled  along — the  thickly  furred  skins  of  animals; 
and  never  did  they  go  to  a  place  at  which  the  Missiorer 
did  not  leave  something  in  return,  usually  some  article  of 
clothing  so  thick  and  warm  that  no  Indian  was  rich  enough 
to  buy  it  for  himself  at  the  Post.  Twice  each  winter 
Father  Roland  sent  down  to  Thoreau  a  great  sledge  load 
of  these  contributions  of  his  people,  and  Thoreau,  selling 
them,  sent  back  a  still  greater  sledge  load  of  supplies  that 


158     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

found  their  way  in  this  manner  of  exchange  into  the  shacks 
and  tepees  of  the  forest  people. 

"If  I  were  only  rich!"  said  Father  Roland  one  night  at 
the  Chateau,  when  it  was  storming  dismally  outside.  "  But 
I  have  nothing,  David.  I  can  do  only  a  tenth  of  what  I 
would  like  to  do.  There  are  only  eighty  families  in  this 
country  of  mine,  and  I  have  figured  that  a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  family,  spent  down  there  and  not  at  the  Post,  would 
keep  them  all  in  comfort  through  the  longest  and  hardest 
winter.  A  hundred  dollars,  in  Winnipeg,  would  buy 
as  much  as  an  Indian  trapper  could  get  at  the  Post  for  a 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  fiu",  and  five  hundred  dollars 
is  a  good  catch.  It  is  terrible,  but  what  can  I  do?  I 
dare  not  buy  their  furs  and  sell  them  for  my  people,  be- 
cause the  Company  would  blacklist  the  whole  lot  and  it 
would  be  a  great  calamity  in  the  end.  But  if  I  had  money 
— if  I  could  do  it  with  my  own     .     .     . " 

David  had  been  thinking  of  that.  In  the  late  January 
snow  two  teams  went  down  to  Thoreau  in  place  of  one. 
Mukoki  had  charge  of  them,  and  with  him  went  an  even 
haK  of  what  David  had  brought  with  him — fifteen  hun* 
dred  dollars  in  gold  certificates. 

"If  I  live  I'm  going  to  make  them  a  Christmas  present 
of  twice  that  amount  each  year,"  he  said.  "I  can  afford 
it.  I  fancy  that  I  shall  take  a  great  pleasure  in  it,  and  that 
occasionally  I  shall  return  into  this  country  to  make  a 
visit." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  spoken  as  though  he 
would  not  remain  with  the  Missioner  indefinitely.  But  the 
conviction  that  the  time  was  not  far  away  when  he  would 
be  leaving  him  had  been  growing  within  him  steadily. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     159 

He  kept  it  to  himself.  He  fought  against  it  even.  But  it 
grew.  And,  curiously  enough,  it  was  strongest  when 
Father  Roland  was  in  the  locked  room  playing  softly  on 
the  violin.  David  never  mentioned  the  room.  He  feigned 
an  indifference  to  its  very  existence.  And  yet  in  spite  of 
himself  the  mystery  of  it  became  an  obsession  with  him. 
Something  within  it  seemed  to  reach  out  insistently  and 
invite  him  in,  like  a  spirit  chained  there  by  the  Missioner 
himself,  crying  for  freedom.  One  night  they  returned  to 
the  Chateau  through  a  blizzard  from  the  cabin  of  a  half- 
breed  whose  wife  was  sick,  and  after  their  supper  the 
Missioner  went  into  the  mystery-room.  He  played  the 
violin  as  usual.  But  after  that  there  was  a  long  silence. 
When  Father  Roland  came  out,  and  seated  himself  op- 
posite David  at  the  small  table  on  which  their  books  were 
scattered,  David  received  a  shock.  Clinging  to  the  Mis- 
sioner's  shoulder,  shimmering  like  a  polished  silken  thread 
in  the  lampglow,  was  a  long,  shining  hair — a  woman's 
hair.  With  an  effort  David  choked  back  the  word  of 
amazement  in  his  throat,  and  began  turning  over  the  pages 
of  a  book.  And  then  suddenly,  the  Missioner  saw  that 
silken  thread.  David  heard  his  quick  breath.  He  saw, 
without  raising  his  eyes,  the  slow,  almost  stealthy  move- 
ment of  his  companion's  fingers  as  he  plucked  the  hair 
from  his  arm  and  shoulder,  and  when  David  looked  up  the 
hair  was  gone,  and  one  of  Father  Roland's  hands  was 
closed  tightly,  so  tightly  that  the  veins  stood  out  on  it. 
He  rose  from  the  table,  and  again  went  into  the  room 
beyond  the  locked  door.  David's  heart  was  beating  like 
an  unsteady  hammer.  He  could  not  quite  account  for 
the  strange  effect  this  incident  had  upon  him-.    He  wanted 


100     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

more  than  ever  to  ^see  that  room  beyond  the  locked 
door. 

February — ^the  Hunger  Moon — of  this  year  was  a  month 
of  great  storm  in  the  Northland.  This  meant  sickness, 
and  a  great  deal  of  travel  for  Father  Roland.  He  and 
David  were  almost  ceaselessly  on  the  move,  and  its  hard- 
ships gave  the  finishing  touches  to  David's  education. 
The  wilderness,  vast  and  empty  as  it  was,  no  longer  held 
a  dread  for  him.  He  had  faced  its  bitterest  storms;  he 
had  slept  with  the  deep  snow  imder  his  blankets;  he  had 
followed  behind  the  Missioner  through  the  blackest  nights, 
when  it  had  seemed  as  though  no  human  soul  could  find 
its  way;  and  he  had  looked  on  death.  Once  they  ran 
swiftly  to  it  through  a  night  blizzard;  again  it  came,  three 
in  a  family,  so  far  to  the  west  that  it  was  out  of  Father 
Roland's  beaten  trails;  and  again  he  saw  it  in  the  Madonna- 
like face  of  a  young  French  girl,  who  had  died  clutching  a 
cross  to  her  breast.  It  was  this  girl's  white  face,  sweet  as  a 
child's  and  strangely  beautiful  in  death,  that  stirred  David 
most  deeply.  She  must  have  been  about  the  ag«  of  the 
girl  whose  picture  he  carried  next  his  heart. 

Soon  after  this,  early  in  March,  he  had  definitely  made 
up  his  mind.  There  was  no  reason  now  why  he  should  not 
go  on.  He  was  physically  fit.  Three  months  had  hard- 
ened him  until  he  was  like  a  rock.  He  believed  that  he  had 
more  than  regained  his  weight.  He  could  beat  Father 
Roland  with  either  rifle  or  pistol,  and  in  one  day  he  had 
travelled  forty  miles  on  snow  shoes.  That  was  when  they 
had  arrived  just  in  time  to  save  the  life  of  Jean  Croisset's 
little  girl,  who  lived  over  on  the  Big  Thunder.  The  crazed 
father  had  led  them  a  mad  race,  but  they  had  kept  up 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     161 

with  him.  And  just  in  time.  There  had  not  been,  an 
hour  to  lose.  After  that  Croisset  and  his  half-breed  wife 
would  have  laid  down  their  lives  for  Father  Roland — and  for 
him.  For  the  forest  people  had  begim  to  accept  him  as  a 
part  of  Father  Roland;  more  and  more  he  could  see  their 
growing  love  for  him,  their  gladness  when  he  came,  their 
sorrow  when  he  left,  and  it  gave  him  what  he  thought  of  as 
a  sort  of  filling  satisfaction,  something  he  had  never  quite 
fully  experienced  before  in  all  his  life.  He  knew  that  he 
would  come  back  to  them  again  some  day — that,  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  he  would  spend  a  ^"eat  deal  of  time 
among  them.    He  assured  Father  Roland  of  this. 

The  Missioner  did  not  question  him  deeply  about  his 
"friends"  in  the  western  mountains.  But  night  after 
night  he  helped  him  to  mark  out  a  trail  on  the  maps  that 
he  had  at  the  Chateau,  giving  him  a  great  deal  of  informa- 
tion which  David  wrote  down  in  a  book,  and  letters  to 
certain  good  friends  of  his  whom  he  would  find  along  the 
way.  As  the  slush  snow  came,  and  the  time  when  David 
would  be  leaving  drew  nearer.  Father  Roland  could  not 
entirely  conceal  his  depression,  and  he  spent  more  time  in 
the  room  beyond  the  locked  door.  Several  times  when 
about  to  enter  the  room  he  seemed  to  hesitate,  as  if  ther^/ 
were  something  which  he  wanted  to  say  to  David.  Twic# 
David  thought  he  was  almost  on  the  point  of  inviting  him 
into  the  room,  and  at  last  he  came  to  believe  that  the 
Missioner  wanted  him  to  know  what  was  beyond  that 
mysterious  door,  and  yet  was  afraid  to  tell  him,  or  ask  him 
in.  It  was  well  along  in  March  that  the  thing  happened 
which  he  had  been  ex|>ecting.  Only  it  came  in  a  manner 
that  amazed  him  deeply.    Father  Roland  came  from  the 


162     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  OT)OONE 

room  early  in  the  evening,  after  playing  his  violin.  He 
locked  the  door,  and  as  he  put  on  his  cap  he  said : 

"I  shall  be  gone  for  an  hour,  David.  I  am  going  over 
to  Mukoki's  cabin." 

He  did  not  ask  David  to  accompany  him,  and  as  he 
turned  to  go  the  key  that  he  had  held  in  his  hand  dropped 
to  the  floor.  It  fell  with  a  quite  audible  sound.  The 
Missioner  must  have  heard  it,  and  would  have  recovered 
it  had  it  slipped  from  his  fingers  accidentally.  But  he 
paid  no  attention  to  it.  He  went  out  quickly,  withouli 
glancing  back. 

For  several  minutes  David  stared  at  the  key  withoi^t 
moving  from  his  chair  near  the  table.  It  meant  but  on^ 
thing.  He  was  invited  to  go  into  that  room — alone.  If 
he  had  had  a  doubt  it  was  dispelled  by  the  fact  that  Father 
Roland  had  left  a  light  burning  in  there.  It  was  not 
chance.  There  was  a  purpose  to  it  all:  the  light,  the 
audible  dropping  of  the  heavy  key,  the  swift  going  of  the 
Missioner.  David  made  himself  sure  of  this  before  he  rose 
from  his  chair.  He  waited  perhaps  five  minutes.  Then 
he  picked  up  the  key. 

At  the  door,  as  the  key  clicked  in  the  lock,  he  hesitated. 
The  thought  came  to  him  that  if  he  was  making  a  mistake 
it  would  be  a  terrible  mistake.  It  held  his  hand  for  a 
moment.  Then,  slowly,  he  pushed  the  door  inward  and 
followed  it  until  he  stood  inside.  The  first  thing  that  he 
noticed  was  a  big  brass  lamp,  of  the  old  style,  brought  over 
from  England  by  the  Company  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
he  held  his  breath  in  anticipation  of  something  tremendous 
impending.  At  first  he  saw  nothing  that  impressed  hiw 
forcibly.    The  room  was  a  disappointment  in  that  fir&t 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     163 

glance.  He  could  see  nothing  of  its  mystery,  nothing  of 
that  strangeness,  quite  indefinable  even  to  himself,  which 
he  had  expected.  And  then,  as  he  stood  there  staring 
about  with  wide-open  eyes,  the  truth  flashed  uf>on  him 
with  a  suddenness  that  drew  a  quick  breath  from  his  Ups. 
He  was  standing  in  a  womarCs  room  I  There  was  no  doubt. 
It  looked  very  much  as  though  a  woman  had  left  it  only 
recently.  There  was  a  bed,  fresh  and  clean,  with  a  white 
counterpane.  She  had  left  on  that  bed  a — ^nightgown; 
yes,  and  he  noticed  that  it  had  a  frill  of  lace  at  the  neck. 
And  on  the  wall  were  her  garments,  quite  a  number  of 
them,  and  a  long  coat  of  a  curious  style,  with  a  great  fur 
collar.  There  was  a  small  dresser,  oddly  antique,  and  on 
it  were  a  brush  and  comb,  a  big  red  pin  cushion,  and  odds 
and  ends  of  a  woman's  toilet  affairs.  Close  to  the  bed 
were  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  pair  of  slippers,  with  unusually 
high  heels,  and  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  counterpane 
was  a  pair  of  long  stockings.  The  walls  of  the  room  were 
touched  up,  as  if  by  a  woman's  hands,  with  pictures  and 
a  few  ornaments.  Where  the  garments  were  hanging 
David  noticed  a  pair  of  woman's  snow  shoes,  and  a  woman's 
moccasins  under  a  picture  of  the  Madonna.  On  the  man- 
tel there  was  a  tall  vase  filled  with  the  dried  stems  of 
flowers.  And  then  came  the  most  amazing  discovery  of 
all.  There  was  a  second  table  between  the  lamp  and  the 
bedt  and  it  was  set  for  two!  Yes,  for  two!  No,  for  three! 
For,  a  little  in  shadow,  David  saw  a  crudely  made 
high-chair — a  baby's  chair — and  on  it  were  a  little  knife 
and  fork,  a  baby  spoon,  and  a  Httle  tin  plate.  It  was 
astounding.  Perfectly  incredible.  And  David's  eyes 
sought  questingly  for  a  door  through  which  a  woman 


164     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

might  come  and  go  mysteriously  and  unseen.  There  was 
none,  and  the  one  window  of  the  room  was  so  high  up  that 
a  person  standing  on  the  ground  outside  could  not  look  in. 

And  now  it  began  to  dawn  upon  David  that  all  these 
things  he  was  looking  at  were  old — very  old.  In  the 
Chdteau  the  Missioner  no  longer  ate  on  tin  plates.  The 
shoes  and  slippers  must  have  been  made  a  generation  ago. 
The  rag  carpet  under  his  feet  had  lost  its  vivid  lines  of 
colouring.  Age  impressed  itself  upon  him.  This  was  a 
woman's  room,  but  the  woman  had  not  been  here  recently. 
And  the  child  had  not  been  here  recently. 

For  the  first  time  his  eyes  turned  in  a  closer  inspection  of 
the  table  on  which  stood  the  big  brass  lamp.  Father 
Roland's  violin  lay  beside  it.  He  made  a  step  or  two 
nearer,  so  that  he  could  see  beyond  the  lamp,  and  his  heart 
gave  a  sudden  jump.  Shimmering  on  the  faded  red  cloth 
of  the  table,  glowing  as  brightly  as  though  it  had  been 
clipped  from  a  woman's  head  but  yesterday,  was  a  long, 
thick  tress  of  hair!  It  was  dark,  richly  dark,  and  his  sec- 
ond impression  was  one  of  amazement  at  the  length  of  it. 
The  tress  was  as  long  as  the  table — ^fully  a  yard  down  the 
woman's  back  it  must  have  hung.  It  was  tied  at  the  end 
with  a  bit  of  white  ribbon. 

David  drew  slowly  back  tgward  the  door,  stirred  all  at 
once  by  a  great  doubt.  Had  Father  Roland  meant  him  to 
look  upon  all  this?  A  lump  rose  suddenly  in  his  throat. 
He  had  made  a  mistake — a  great  mistake.  He  felt  now 
like  one  who  had  broken  into  the  sanctity  of  a  sacred  place. 
He  had  committed  sacrilege.  The  Missioner  had  not 
dropped  the  key  purposely.  It  must  have  been  an  acci- 
dent.   And  he — David — was  guilty  of  a  great  blunder. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     165 

He  withdrew  from  the  room,  and  locked  the  door.  He 
dropped  the  key  where  he  had  found  it  on  the  floor,  and 
sat  down  again  with  his  book.  He  did  not  read.  He 
scarcely  saw  the  lines  of  the  printed  page.  He  had  not 
been  in  his  chair  more  than  ten  minutes  when  he  heard 
quick  footsteps,  followed  by  a  hand  at  the  door,  and  Father 
Roland  came  in.  He  was  visibly  excited,  and  his  glance 
shot  at  once  to  the  room  which  David  had  just  left.  Then 
his  eyes  scanned  the  floor.  The  key  was  gleaming  where 
it  had  fallen,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  relief  the  Mission- 
er  snatched  it  up. 

"I  thought  I  had  lost  my  key,"  he  laughed,  a  bit 
nervously;  then  he  added,  with  a  deep  breath:  "It*s 
snowing  to-night.  A  heavy  snow,  and  there  will  be  good 
sledging  for  a  few  days.  God  knows  I  don't  want  you  to 
leave  me,  but  if  it  must  be — we  should  take  advantage  of 
this  snow.  It  will  be  the  last.  Mukoki  and  I  will  go  with 
you  as  far  as  the  Reindeer  Lake  country,  two  hundred 
miles  northwest.     David — mz^^yougo?'* 

It  seemed  to  David  that  two  tiny  fists  were  pwDunding 
against  his  breast,  where  the  picture  lay. 

"Yes,  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "I  have  quite  made  up  my 
mind  to  that.     I  must  go." 


CHAPTER  XV 

TEN  days  after  that  night  when  he  had  gone  into  the 
mystery-room  at  the  Chdteau,  David  and  Father 
Roland  clasped  hands  in  a  final  farewell  at  White 
Porcupine  House,  on  the  Cochrane  River,  270  miles  from 
God's  Lake.  It  was  something  more  than  a  hand-shake. 
The  Missioner  made  no  effort  to  speak  in  these  last 
moments.  His  team  was  ready  for  the  return  drive  and 
he  had  drawn  his  travelling  hood  close  about  his  face.  In 
his  own  heart  he  believed  that  David  would  never  return. 
He  would  go  back  to  civilization,  probably  next  autunm, 
and  in  time  he  would  forget.  As  he  said,  on  their  last  day 
before  reaching  the  Cochrane,  David's  going  was  like 
taking  a  part  of  his  heart  away.  He  blinked  now,  as  he 
dropped  David's  hand — ^blinked  and  turned  his  eyes. 
And  David's  voice  had  an  odd  break  in  it.  He  knew  what 
the  Missioner  was  thinking. 

"I'll  come  back,  mon  Pere,'*  he  called  after  him,  as 
Father  Roland  broke  away  and  went  toward  Mukoki  and 
the  dogs.     "  I'll  come  back  next  year ! " 

Father  Roland  did  not  look  back  until  they  were  started. 
Then  he  turned  and  waved  a  mittened  hand.  Mukoki 
heard  the  sob  in  his  throat.  David  tried  to  call  a  last 
word  to  him,  but  his  voice  choked.  He,  too,  waved  a 
hand.  He  had  not  known  that  there  were  friendships  like 
this  between  men,  and  as  the  Missioner  trailed  steadily 

J  66 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     167 

away  from  him,  growing  smaller  and  smaller  against  the 
dark  rim  of  the  distant  forest,  he  felt  a  sudden  fear  and  a 
great  loneliness — a  fear  that,  in  spite  of  himself,  they  would 
not  meet  again,  and  the  loneliness  that  comes  to  a  man 
when  he  sees  a  world  widening  between  himself  and  the 
one  friend  he  has  on  earth.  His  one  friend.  The  man 
who  had  saved  him  from  himself,  who  had  pointed  out  the 
way  for  him,  who  had  made  him  fight.  More  than  a 
friend;  a  father.  He  did  not  stop  the  broken  sound  that 
came  to  his  lips.  A  low  whine  answered  it,  and  he  looked 
down  at  Baree,  huddled  in  the  snow  within  a  yard  of  his 
feet.  "My  god  and  master,"  Baree's  eyes  said,  as  they 
looked  up  at  him,  "I  am  here."  It  was  as  if  David  had 
heard  the  words.  He  held  out  a  hand  and  Baree  came  to 
him,  his  great  wolfish  body  aquiver  with  joy.  After  all, 
he  was  not  alone. 

A  short  distance  from  him  the  Indian  who  was  to  take 
him  over  to  Fond  du  Lac,  on  Lake  Athabasca,  was  waiting 
with  his  dogs  and  sledge.  He  was  a  Sarcee,  one  of  the 
last  of  an  almost  extinct  tribe,  so  old  that  his  hair  was  of  a 
shaggy  white,  and  he  was  so  thin  that  he  looked  like  a 
famine-stricken  Hindu.  "He  has  lived  so  long  that  no 
one  knows  his  age,"  Father  Roland  had  said,  "and  he  is 
the  best  trailer  betwden  Hudson's  Bay  and  the  Peace." 
His  name  was  Upso-Gee  (the  Snow  Fox),  and  the  Mission- 
er  had  bargained  with  him  for  a  hundred  dollars  to  take 
David  from  White  Porcupine  House  to  Fond  du  Lac,  three 
hundred  miles  farther  northwest.  He  cracked  his  long 
caribou-gut  whip  to  remind  David  that  he  was  ready. 
David  had  said  good-bye  to  the  factor  and  the  clerk  at  the 
Company  store  and  there  was  no  longer  an  excuse  to  detain 


168     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

him.  They  struck  out  across  a  small  lake.  Five  minutes 
later  he  looked  back.  Father  Roland,  not  much  more 
than  a  speck  on  the  white  plain  now,  was  about  to  dis- 
appear in  the  forest.  It  seemed  to  David  that  he  had 
stopped,  and  again  he  waved  his  hand,  though  human 
eyes  could  not  have  seen  the  movement  over  that  distance. 
Not  until  that  night,  when  David  sat  alone  beside  his 
campfire,  did  he  begin  to  realize  fully  the  vastness  of  this 
adventure  into  which  he  had  plunged.  The  Snow  Fox 
was  dead  asleep  and  it  was  horribly  lonely.  It  was  a 
dark  night,  too,  with  the  shivering  wailing  of  a  restless 
wind  in  the  tree  tops;  the  sort  of  night  that  makes  loneli- 
ness grow  imtU  it  is  like  some  kind  of  a  monst^  inside, 
choking  off  one's  breath.  And  on  Upso-Gee's  tepee,  with 
the  firelight  dancing  on  it,  there  was  painted  in  red  a 
grotesque  fiend  with  horns — a  medicine  man,  or  devil 
chaser;  and  this  devil  chaser  grinned  in  a  bloodthirsty 
manner  at  David  as  he  sat  near  the  fire,  as  if  gloating  over 
some  dreadful  fate  that  awaited  him.  It  was  lonely. 
Even  Baree  seemed  to  sense  his  master's  oppression,  for 
he  had  laid  his  head  between  David's  feet,  and  was  as 
still  as  if  asleep.  A  long  way  off  David  could  hear  the 
howling  of  a  wolf  and  it  reminded  him  shiveringly  of  the 
lead-dog's  howl  that  night  before  Tavish's  cabin.  It  was 
like  the  death  cry  that  comes  from  a  dog's  throat;  and 
where  the  forest  gloom  mingled  with  the  firehght  he  saw  a 
phantom  shadow — in  the  morning  he  found  that  it  was  a 
spruce  bough,  broken  and  hanging  down — that  made  him 
think  again  of  Tavish  swinging  in  the  moonlight.  His 
thoughts  bore  upon  him  deeply  and  with  foreboding. 
And  he  asked  himself  questions — questions  which  were  not 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     169 

new,  but  which  came  to  him  to-night  with  a  new  and  deeper 
significaiice.  He  beUeved  that  Father  Roland  would  have 
gasped  in  amazement  and  that  he  would  have  held  up  his 
hands  in  increduHty  had  he  known  the  truth  of  this 
astonishing  adventure  of  his.  An  astonishing  adventure 
— nothing  less.  To  find  a  girl.  A  girl  he  had  never  seen, 
who  might  be  in  another  part  of  the  world,  when  he  had 
got  to  the  end  of  his  journey — or  married.  And  if  he 
found  her,  what  would  he  say?  What  would  he  dor 
Why  did  he  want  to  find  her?  "God  alone  knows,"  he 
said  aloud,  borne  down  under  his  gloom,  and  went  to  bed. 
Small  things,  as  Father  Roland  had  frequently  said, 
decide  great  events.  The  next  morning  came  with  a 
glorious  sun;  the  world  again  was  white  and  wonderful, 
and  David  found  swift  answers  to  the  questions  he  had 
asked  himself  a  few  hours  before.  Each  day  thereafter 
the  sun  was  warmer,  and  with  its  increasing  promise  of  the 
final  "break-up"  and  slush  snows,  Upso-Gee's  taciturnity 
and  anxiety  grew  apace.  He  was  little  more  talkative 
than  the  painted  devil  chaser  on  the  blackened  canvas  of 
his  tepee,  but  he  gave  David  to  understand  that  he  would 
have  a  hard  time  getting  back  with  his  dogs  and  sledge 
from  Fond  du  Lac  if  the  thaw  came  earlier  than  he  had 
anticipated.  David  marvelled  at  the  old  warrior's  en- 
durance, and  especially  when  they  crossed  the  forty  miles 
of  ice  on  Wollaston  Lake  between  dawn  and  darkness. 
At  high  noon  the  snow  was  beginning  to  soften  on  the 
sunny  slopes  even  then,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
Porcupine,  Snow  Fox  was  chanting  his  despairing  prayer 
nightly  before  that  grinning  thing  on  his  tepee.  "Swas- 
tao  (the  thaw)  she  kam  dam*  queek,"  he  said  to  David, 


170      THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

grimacing  his  old  face  to  express  other  things  which  he 
could  not  say  in  English.  And  it  did.  Four  days  later, 
when  they  reached  Fond  duLac,  there  was  water  underfoot 
in  places,  and  Upso-Gee  turned  back  on  the  home  trail 
within  an  hour. 

This  was  in  April,  and  the  Post  reminded  David  of  a 
great  hive  to  which  the  forest  people  were  swarming  like 
treasure-laden  bees.  On  the  last  snow  they  were  coming 
in  with  their  furs  from  a  himdred  trap-lines.  Luck  was 
with  David.  On  the  first  day  Baree  fought  with  a  huge 
malemute  and  almost  killed  it,  and  David,  in  separating 
the  dogs,  was  slightly  bitten  by  the  malemute.  A  friend- 
ship sprang  up  instantly  between  the  two  masters.  Bou- 
vais  was  a  Frenchman  from  Horseshoe  Bay,  fifty  miles  from 
Fort  Chippewyan,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  straight  west 
of  Fond  du  Lac.  He  was  a  fox  hunter.  "I  bring  my  furs 
over  here,  m*sieu,"  he  explained,  "because  I  had  a  fight 
with  the  factor  at  Fort  Chippewyan  and  broke  out  two  of 
his  teeth,"  which  was  sufficient  explanation.  He  was 
delighted  when  he  learned  that  David  wanted  to  go  west* 
They  started  two  days  later  with  a  sledge  heavily  laden 
with  supplies.  The  runners  sank  deep  in  the  growing 
slush,  but  under  them  was  always  the  thick  ice  of  Lake 
Athabasca,  and  going  was  not  bad,  except  that  David'a 
feet  were  always  wet.  He  was  surprised  that  he  did  not 
take  a  "cold."  "A  cold — what  is  that?"  asked  Bouvais, 
who  had  lived  along  the  Barrens  all  his  life.  David  de- 
scribed a  typical  case  of  sniffles,  with  running  at  eyes  and 
nose,  and  Bouvais  laughed.  "The  only  cold  we  have  up 
here  is  when  the  lungs  get  touched  by  frost,"  he  said, 
"and  then  you  die — the  following  spring.     Always  then* 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     171 

The  lungs  slough  away.**  And  then  he  asked :  "  Why  are 
you  going  west?'* 

David  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  question,  and 
had  to  answer.  "Just  to  toughen  up  a  bit,'*  he  replied. 
"Wandering.  Nothing  else  to  do."  And  after  all,  he 
thought  later,  wasn't  that  pretty  near  the  truth?  He 
tried  to  convince  himself  that  it  was.  But  his  hand 
touched  the  picture  of  the  Girl,  in  his  breast  pocket. 
He  seemed  to  feel  her  throbbing  against  it.  A  prepos- 
terous imagination!  But  it  was  pleasing.  It  warmed  his 
blood. 

For  a  week  David  and  Baree  remained  at  Horseshoe 
Bay  with  the  Frenchman.  Then  they  went  on  around 
the  end  of  the  lake  toward  Fort  Chippewyan.  Bouvais 
accompanied  them,  out  of  friendship  purely,  and  they 
travelled  afoot  with  fifty-pound  packs  on  their  shoulders, 
for  in  the  big,  sunUt  reaches  the  ground  was  already  grow- 
ing bare  of  snow.  Bouvais  turned  back  when  they  were 
ten  miles  from  Fort  Chippewyan,  explaining  that  it  was  a 
nasty  matter  to  have  knocked  two  teeth  down  a  factor's 
throat,  and  particularly  down  the  throat  of  the  head  factor 
of  the  Chippewyan  and  Athabasca  district.  "And  they 
went  down,'*  assured  Bouvais.  "He  tried  to  spit  them 
out,  but  couldn't."  A  few  hours  later  David  met  the 
factor  and  observed  that  Bouvais  had  spoken  the  truth; 
at  least  there  were  two  teeth  missing,  quite  conspicuously. 
Hatchett  was  his  name.  He  looked  it;  tall,  thin,  sinewy, 
with  bird-like  eyes  that  were  shifting  this  way  and  that 
at  all  times,  as  though  he  were  constantly  on  the  alert  for 
an  ambush,  or  feared  thieves.  He  was  suspicious  of 
David,  coming  in  alone  in  this  No  Man's  Land  with  a  pack 


172     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

on  his  back;  a  white  man,  too,  which  made  him  all  the  more 
suspicious.  Perhaps  a  possible  free  trader  looking  for  a 
location.  Or,  worse  still,  a  spy  of  the  Company's  hated 
comp>etitors,  tlie  Revilon  Brothers.  It  took  some  time 
for  Father  Roland's  letter  to  convince  him  that  David 
was  harmless.  And  then,  all  at  once,  he  warmed  up  like  a 
birch-bark  taking  fire,  and  shook  David's  hand  three 
times  within  five  minutes,  so  hungry  was  he  for  a  white 
man's  companionship — an  honest  white  man's,  mind  you, 
and  not  a  scoundrelly  competitor's !  He  opened  four  cans 
of  lobsters,  left  over  from  Christmas,  for  their  first  meal, 
and  that  night  beat  David  at  seven  games  of  cribbage  in  a 
row.  He  wasn't  married,  he  said;  didn't  even  have  an 
Indian  woman.  Hated  women.  If  it  wasn't  for  breeding 
a  future  generation  of  trappers  he  would  not  care  if  they 
all  died.  No  good.  Positively  no  good.  Always  making 
trouble,  more  or  less.  That's  why,  a  long  time  ago,  there 
was  a  fort  at  Chipj>ewyan — sort  of  blockhouse  that  still 
stood  there.  Two  men,  of  two  different  tribes,  wanted 
same  woman;  quarrelled;  fought;  one  got  his  blamed  head 
busted;  tribes  took  it  up;  raised  hell  for  a  time — ^all  over 
that  rag  of  a  woman!  Terrible  creatures,  women  were. 
He  emphasized  his  behef  in  short,  biting  snatches  of  words, 
as  though  afraid  of  wearing  out  his  breath  or  his  vocabulary 
or  both.  Maybe  his  teeth  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Where  the  two  were  missing  he  carried  the  stem  of  his 
pipe,  and  when  he  talked  the  stem  clicked,  like  a  castanet. 
David  had  come  at  a  propitious  moment — a  "most 
propichus  moment,"  Hatchett  told  him.  He  had  done 
splendidly  that  winter.  His  bargains  with  the  Indians 
had  been  sharp  and  exceedingly  profitable  for  the  Company 


THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE     173 

and  as  soon  as  he  got  his  furs  off  to  Fort  McMurray  on  their 
way  to  Edmonton  he  was  going  on  a  long  journey  of 
inspection,  which  was  his  reward  for  duty  well  performed. 
His  fur  barges  were  ready.  All  they  were  waiting  for  was 
the  breaking  up  of  the  ice,  when  the  barges  would  start 
up  the  Athabasca,  which  meant  souih;  while  he,  in  his 
big  war  canoe,  would  head  up  the  Peace,  which  meant 
west.  He  was  going  as  far  as  Hudson's  Hope,  and  this 
was  within  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  where  David 
wanted  to  go.  He  proved  that  fact  by  digging  up  an  old 
Company  map.  David's  heart  beat  an  excited  tattoo. 
This  was  more  than  he  had  expected.  Almost  too  good 
to  be  true.  "You  can  toork  your  way  up  there  with  me," 
declared  Hatchett,  cHcking  his  pipe  stem.  "Won't  cost 
you  a  cent.  Not  a  dam'  cent.  Work.  Eat.  Smoke. 
Fine  trip.  Just  for  compauy.  A  man  needs  company 
once  in  a  while — decent  company.  Ice  will  go  by  middle 
of  May.  Two  weeks.  Meanwhile,  have  a  devil  of  a  time 
playing  cribbage." 

They  did.  Cribbage  was  Hatchett's  one  passion,  unless 
another  was — ^beating  the  Indians.  "Rascally  devils," 
he  would  say,  driving  his  cribbage  pegs  home.  "Always 
trying  to  put  off  poor  fur  on  me  for  good.  Deserve  to  be 
beat.     And  I  beat  'em.     Dam-if-I-don't." 

"How  did  you  lose  your  teeth?"  David  asked  him  at 
last.     They  were  playing  late  one  night. 

Hatchett  sat  up  in  his  chair  as  if  stung.  His  eyes 
bulged  as  he  looked  at  David,  and  his  pipe  stem  clicked 
fiercely. 

"Frenchman,"  he  said.  "Dirty  pig  of  a  Frenchman. 
No  use  for  'em.     None.    Told  him  women  were  no  good 


174     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

— all  women  were  bad.  Said  he  had  a  woman.  Said  I 
didn't  care — all  bad  just  the  same.  Said  the  woman  he 
referred  to  was  his  wife.  Told  him  he  was  a  fool  to  have  a 
wife.  No  warning — the  pig!  He  biffed  me.  Knocked 
those  two  teeth  out — down  I  I'll  get  him  some  day.  Flay 
him.  Make  dog  whips  of  his  dirty  hide.  All  Frenchmen 
ought  to  die.     Hope  to  God  they  will.     Starve.     Freeze." 

In  spite  of  himself  David  laughed.  Hatchett  took  no 
offense,  but  the  grimness  of  his  long,  sombre  countenance 
remained  unbroken.  A  day  or  two  later  he  discovered 
Hatchett  in  the  act  of  giving  an  old,  white-haired,  half* 
breed  cripple  a  bag  of  supplies.  Hatchett  shook  himself, 
as  if  caught  in  an  act  of  crime. 

"I'm  going  to  kill  that  old  Dog  Rib  soon  as  the  ground's 
soft  enough  to  dig  a  grave,"  he  declared,  shaking  a  fist: 
fiercely  after  the  old  Indian.  "Beggar.  A  sneak.  No 
good.  Ought  to  die.  Giving  him  just  enough  to  keep 
him  aMve  until  the  ground  is  soft." 

After  all,  Hatchett's  face  belied  his  heart.  His  tongue 
was  hke  a  cleaver.  It  ripped  things  generally — ^was  ter- 
rible in  its  threatening,  but  harmless,  and  tremendously 
amusing  to  David.  He  liked  Hatchett.  His  cadaverous 
countenance,  never  breaking  into  a  smile,  was  the  oddest 
mask  he  had  ever  seen  a  human  being  wear.  He  believed 
that  if  it  once  broke  into  a  laugh  it  would  not  straighten 
back  again  without  leaving  a  permanent  crack.  And  yet 
he  hked  the  man,  and  the  days  passed  swiftly. 

It  was  the  middle  of  May  before  they  started  up  the 
Peace,  three  days  after  the  fur  barges  had  gone  down  the 
Athabasca.  David  had  never  seen  anything  Hke  Hatch- 
ett's big  war  canoe,  roomy  as  a  small  ship,  and  Ught  as  a 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     175 

f mther  on  the  water.  Four  powerful  Dog  Ribs  went  with 
them,  making  six  paddles  in  all.  When  it  came  to  a 
question  of  Baree,  Hatchett  put  down  his  foot  with 
emphasis.  "What!  Make  a  dam"  passenger  of  a  dog? 
Never.     Let  him  follow  ashore — or  die." 

This  would  undoubtedly  have  been  Baree's  choice  if 
he  had  had  a  voice  in  the  matter.  Day  after  day  he 
followed  the  canoe,  swimming  streams  and  working  his 
way  through  swamp  and  forest.  It  was  no  easy  matter. 
In  the  deep,  slow  waters  of  the  Lower  Peace  the  canoe 
made  thirty-five  miles  a  day;  twice  it  made  forty.  But 
Hatchett  kept  Baree  well  fed,  and  each  night  the  dog  slept 
at  David's  feet  in  camp.  On  the  sixth  day  they  reached 
Fort  Vermilion,  and  Hatchett  announced  himself  hke  a 
king.  For  he  was  on  inspection.  Company  inspection, 
mind  you.  Important!  A  week  later  they  arrived  at 
Peace  River  landing,  two  hundred  miles  farther  west,  and 
on  the  twentieth  day  came  to  Fort  St.  John,  fifty  miles 
from  Hudson's  Hope.  From  here  David  saw  his  first  of 
the  mountains.  He  made  out  their  snowy  peaks  clearly, 
seventy  miles  away,  and  with  his  finger  on  a  certain  spot 
on  Hatchett's  map  his  heart  thrilled.  He  was  almost 
there!  Each  day  the  mountains  grew  nearer.  From 
Hudson's  Hope  he  fancied  that  he  could  almost  see  the 
dark  blankets  of  timber  on  their  sides.  Hatchett  grunted. 
They  were  still  forty  miles  away.  And  Mac  Veigh,  the 
factor  at  Hudson's  Hope,  looked  at  David  in  a  curious  sort 
of  way  when  David  told  him  where  he  was  going. 

"You're  the  first  white  man  to  do  it,"  he  said — ^an 
inflection  of  doubt  in  his  voice.  "It's  not  bad  going  up 
the.  Finly  as  f ar  as  the  Kwadocha.     But  from  there.     .     ." 


176     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

He  shook  his  head.  He  was  short  and  thick,  and  his 
jaw  hung  heavy  with  disapproval. 

"You*re  still  seventy  miles  from  the  Stikine  when  you 
end  up  at  the  Kwadocha,"  he  went  on,  thumbing  the  map. 
"Who  the  devil  will  you  get  to  take  you  on  from  there? 
Straight  over  the  backbone  of  the  Rockies.  No  trails. 
Not  even  a  Post  there.  Too  rough  a  country.  Even  the 
Indians  won't  live  in  it."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as 
if  reflecting  deeply.  "  Old  Towaskook  and  his  tribe  are  on 
the  Kwadocha,"  he  added,  as  if  seeing  a  glimmer  of  hope. 
"He  might.  But  I  doubt  it.  They're  a  lazy  lot  of  mon- 
grels, Towaskook's  people,  who  carve  things  out  of  wood, 
to  worship.  StiU,  he  might,  I'U  send  up  a  good  man  with 
you  to  influence  him,  and  you'd  better  take  along  a  couple 
hundred  dollars  in  supphes  as  a  further  inducement." 

The  man  was  a  half-breed.  Three  days  later  they  left 
Hudson's  Hope,  with  Baree  riding  amidships.  The  moun- 
tains loomed  up  swiftly  after  this,  and  the  second  day  they 
were  among  them.  After  that  it  was  slow  work  fighting 
their  way  up  against  the  current  of  the  Finly.  It  was 
tremendous  work.  It  seemed  to  David  that  half  their 
time  was  spent  amid  the  roar  of  rapids.  Twenty-seven 
times  within  five  days  they  made  portages.  Later  on  it 
took  them  two  days  to  carry  their  canoe  and  supplies 
around  a  mountain.  Fifteen  days  were  spent  in  making 
eighty  miles.  Easier  travel  followed  then.  It  was  the 
twentieth  of  June  when  they  made  their  last  camp  before 
reaching  the  Kwadocha.  The  sun  was  still  up;  but  they 
*vere  tired,  utterly  exhausted.  David  looked  at  his  map 
and  at  the  figures  in  the  notebook  he  carried.  He  had 
come  close  to  fifteen  hundred  miles  since  that  d^  when  he 


TEE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     177 

and  Father  Roland  and  Mukoki  had  set  out  for  the 
Cochrane.  Fifteen  hundred  miles!  And  he  had  less 
than  a  hundred  more  to  go!  Just  over  those  mountains — 
somewhere  beyond  them.  It  looked  easy.  He  would 
not  be  afraid  to  go  alone,  if  old  Towaskook  refused  to  help 
him.  Yes,  alone.  He  would  find  his  way,  somehow,  he 
and  Baree.  He  had  unbounded  confidence  in  Baree. 
Together  they  could  fight  it  out.  Within  a  week  or  two 
they  would  find  the  Girl. 

And  thea    .    .    .     ? 

He  looked  at  the  picture  a  long  time  in  the  glow  of  the 
setting  sun. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  WAS  the  week  of  the  Big  Festival  when  David  and 
his  half-breed  arrived  at  Towaskook's  village.  To- 
waskook  was  the  "farthest  east"  of  the  totem- wor- 
shippers, and  each  of  his  forty  or  fifty  people  reminded 
David  of  the  devil  chaser  on  the  canvas  of  the  Snow  Fox*s 
tepee.  They  were  dressed  up,  as  he  remarked  to  the  half- 
breed,  "like  fiends."  On  the  day  of  David's  arrival 
Towaskook  himseK  was  disguised  in  a  huge  bear  head  from 
which  protruded  a  pair  of  buffalo  horns  that  had  somehow 
drifted  up  there  from  the  western  prairies,  and  it  was  his 
special  business  to  perform  various  antics  about  his  totem 
pole  for  at  least  six  hours  between  sunrise  and  sunset, 
chanting  all  the  time  most  dolorous  supplications  to  the 
squat  monster  who  sat,  grinning,  at  the  top.  It  was  "  the 
day  of  good  hunting,"  and  Towaskook  and  his  people 
worked  themselves  into  exhaustion  by  the  ardour  of  their 
prayers  that  the  game  of  the  mountains  might  walk  right 
up  to  their  tepee  doors  to  be  killed,  thus  necessitating  the 
smallest  possible  physical  exertion  in  its  capture.  That 
night  Towaskook  visited  David  at  his  camp,  a  little  up 
the  river,  to  see  what  he  could  get  out  of  the  white 
man.  He  was  monstrously  fat — fat  from  laziness; 
and  David  wondered  how  he  had  managed  to  put  ifn 
his  hours  of  labour  under  the  totem  pole.  David  snt 
in  silence,  trying  to  make  out  something  from  their  ge^^ 

178 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE       179 

lures,  as  his  half-breed,  Jacques,  and  the  old  chief 
ty-lked. 

Jacques  repeated  it  all  to  him  after  Towaskook,  sighing 
deeply,  had  risen  from  his  squatting  posture,  and  left  them. 
It  was  a  terrible  journey  over  those  mountains,  Towaskook 
had  said.  He  had  been  on  the  Stikine  once.  He  had 
split  with  his  tribe,  and  had  started  eastward  with  many 
followers,  but  half  of  them  had  died — died  because  they 
would  not  leave  their  precious  totems  behind — and  so 
had  been  caught  in  a  deep  snow  that  came  early.  It  was  a 
ten-day  journey  over  the  mountains.  You  went  up  above 
the  clouds — many  times  you  had  to  go  above  the  clouds. 
He  would  never  make  the  journey  again.  There  was  one 
chance — just  one.  He  had  a  young  bear  hunter,  Kio, 
hi*  face  was  still  smooth.  He  had  not  won  his  spurs,  so 
to  speak,  and  he  was  anxious  to  perform  a  great  feat, 
especially  as  he  was  in  love  with  his  medicine  man*s 
daughter  Kwak-wa-pisew  (the  Butterfly).  Kio  might  go, 
to  prove  his  valour  to  the  Butterfly.  Towaskook  had  gone 
fof  him.  Of  course,  on  a  mission  of  this  kind,  Kio  would 
accept  no  pay.  That  would  go  to  Towaskook.  The  two 
himdred  dollars*  worth  of  supplies  satisfied  him. 

A  little  later  Towaskook  returned  with  Kio.  He  was 
exceedingly  youthful,  slim-built  as  a  weazel,  but  with  a 
deep-set  and  treacherous  eye.  He  listened.  He  would 
go.  He  would  go  as  far  as  the  confluence  of  the  Pitman 
and  the  Stikine,  if  Towaskook  would  assure  him  the  Butter- 
fly. Towaskook,  eyeing  greedily  the  supplies  which 
Jacques  had  laid  out  alluringly,  nodded  an  agreement  to 
that.  "The  next  day,'*  Kio  said,  then,  eager  now  for  the 
adventure.     "  The  next  day  they  would  start." 


180     THE  COUEAGE  OF  MABGE  O'DOONE 

That  night  Jacques  carefully  made  up  the  two  shoulder 
packs  which  David  and  Kio  were  to  carry,  for  thereafter 
their  travel  would  be  entirely  afoot.  David's  burden, 
with  his  rifle,  was  fifty  pounds.  Jacques  saw  them  off, 
shouting  a  last  warning  for  David  to  "keep  a  watdi  on 
that  devil-eyed  Ejo." 

Kjo  was  not  like  his  eyes.  He  turned  out,  very  shortly, 
to  be  a  communicative  and  rather  likable  young  fellow. 
He  was  ignorant  of  the  white  man's  talk.  But  he  was  a 
master  of  gesticulation;  and  when,  in  climbing  their  first 
mountain,  David  discovered  muscles  in  his  legs  and  back 
that  he  had  never  known  of  before,  Kio  laughingly  sym- 
pathized with  him  and  assured  him  in  vivid  pantomime 
that  he  would  soon  get  used  to  it.  Their  first  night  they 
camped  almost  at  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  Kjo 
wanted  to  make  the  warmth  of  the  valley  beyond,  but 
those  new  muscles  in  David's  legs  and  back  declared  other- 
wise. Strawberries  were  ripening  in  the  deeper  valleys, 
but  up  where  they  were  it  was  cold.  A  bitter  wind  came 
off  the  snow  on  the  peaks,  and  David  could  smell  the  pun- 
gent fog  of  the  clouds.  They  were  so  high  that  the  scrub 
twigs  of  their  fire  smouldered  with  scarcely  sufficient  heat 
to  fry  their  bacon.  David  was  oblivious  of  the  discomfort. 
His  blood  ran  warm  in  hope  and  anticipation.  He  was 
almost  at  the  end  of  his  joiu*ney.  It  had  been  a  great 
fight,  and  he  had  won.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind 
now.     After  this  he  could  face  the  world  again. 

Day  after  day  they  made  their  way  westward.  It  was 
tremendous,  this  journey  over  the  backbone  of  the  moun- 
tains. It  gave  one  a  different  conception  of  men.  They 
were  like  ante  on  these  mountains,  David  thought — in- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     181 

significant,  crawling  ants.  Here  was  where  one  might 
find  a  soul  and  a  religion  if  he  had  never  had  one  before. 
One's  littleness,  at  times,  was  almost  frightening.  It  made 
one  think,  impressed  upon  one  that  life  was  not  much 
more  than  an  accident  in  this  vast  scale  of  creation,  and 
that  there  was  great  necessity  for  a  God.  In  Kio's  eyes, 
as  he  sometimes  looked  down  into  the  valleys,  there  was 
this  thing;  the  thought  which  perhaps  he  couldn't  analyze, 
the  great  truth  which  he  couldn't  understand,  but  feli. 
It  made  a  worshipper  of  him — a  devout  worshipper  of  the 
totem.  And  it  occurred  to  David  that  perhaps  the  spirit 
of  God  was  in  that  totem  even  as  much  as  in  finger-worn 
rosaries  and  the  ivory  crosses  on  women's  breasts. 

Early  on  the  eleventh  day  they  came  to  the  confluence 
of  the  Pitman  and  the  Stlkine  rivers,  and  a  little  later  Kio 
turned  back  on  his  homeward  journey,  and  David  and 
Baree  were  alone.  This  aloneness  fell  upon  them  hke  a 
thing  that  had  a  pulse  and  was  alive.  They  crossed  the 
Divide  and  were  in  a  great  sunlit  country  of  amazing 
beauty  and  grandeur,  with  wide  valleys  between  the 
mountains.  It  was  July.  From  up  and  down  the  valley, 
from  the  breaks  between  the  peaks  and  from  the  little 
gullies  cleft  in  shale  and  rock  that  crept  up  to  the  snow 
lines,  came  a  soft  and  droning  murmur.  It  was  the  music 
of  running  water.  That  music  was  always  in  the  air,  for 
the  rivers,  the  creeks,  and  the  tiny  streams,  gushing  down 
from  the  snow  that  lay  eternally  up  near  the  clouds,  were 
never  still.  There  were  sweet  perfumes  as  well  as  music 
in  the  air.  The  earth  was  bursting  with  green;  the  early 
flowers  were  turning  the  sunny  slopes  into  coloured  splashes 
of  red  and  white  and  purple — splashes  of  violets  and  for- 


182     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE 

get-me-nots,  of  wild  asters  and  hyacinths.  David  looked 
upon  it  all,  and  his  soul  drank  in  its  wonders.  He  made 
his  camp,  and  he  remained  in  it  all  that  day,  and  the  next* 
He  was  eager  to  go  on,  and  yet  in  his  eagerness  he  hesitated, 
and  waited.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  become  ac- 
quainted with  this  empty  world  before  venturing  farther 
into  it — alone;  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  understand 
it  a  little,  and  get  his  bearings.  He  could  not  lose  himself. 
Jacques  had  assured  him  of  that,  and  Kio  had  pantomimed 
it,  pointing  many  times  at  the  broad,  shallow  stream  that 
ran  ahead  of  him.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  follow  the 
river.  In  time,  many  weeks,  of  course,  it  would  bring  him 
to  the  white  settlement  on  the  ocean.  Long  before  that  he 
would  strike  Firepan  Creek.  Kio  had  never  been  so  far; 
he  had  never  been  farther  than  this  junction  of  the  two 
streams,  Towaskook  had  informed  Jacques.  So  it  was  not 
fear  that  held  David.  It  was  the  aloneness.  He  was 
taking  a  long  mental  breath.  And,  meanwhile,  he  was 
repairing  his  boots,  and  doctoring  Baree's  feet,  bruised  and 
sore  by  their  travel  over  the  shale  of  the  mountain 
tops. 

He  thought  that  he  had  experienced  the  depths  of  loneli- 
ness after  leaving  the  Missioner.  But  here  it  was  a  much 
larger  thing.  This  night,  as  he  sat  under  the  stars  and  a 
great  white  moon,  with  Baree  at  his  feet,  it  engulfed  him; 
not  in  a  depressing  way,  but  aw^esomely.  It  was  not  an 
unpleasant  loneliness,  and  yet  he  felt  that  it  had  no  limit, 
that  it  was  immeasurable.  It  was  as  vast  as  the  mountains 
that  shut  him  in.  Somewhere,  miles  to  the  east  of  him 
now,  was  Kio.  That  was  all.  He  knew  that  he  would 
never  be  able  to  describe  it,  this  loneliness — or  aloneness; 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     183 

one  man,  and  a  dog,  with  a  world  to  themselves.  After 
a  time,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to  the 
droning  sound  of  the  waters  in  the  valley,  it  began  to 
thrill  him  with  a  new  kind  of  intelligence.  Here  was 
peace  as  vast  as  space  itself.  It  was  not  troubled  by  the 
struggling  existence  of  men,  and  women,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  must  remain  very  still  under  the  watchfulness 
of  those  billions  of  sentinels  in  the  sky,  with  the  white  moon 
floating  under  them.  The  second  night  he  made  himself 
and  Baree  a  small  fire.  The  third  morning  he  shouldered 
his  pack  and  went  on. 

Baree  kept  close  at  his  master's  side,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  two  were  constantly  on  the  alert.  They  were  in  a 
splendid  game  country,  and  David  watched  for  the  first 
opportunity  that  would  give  Baree  and  himself  fresh  meat. 
The  white  sand  bars  and  gravelly  shores  of  the  stream  were 
covered  with  the  tracks  of  the  wild  dwellers  of  the  valley 
and  the  adjoining  ranges,  and  Baree  sniffed  hungrily  when- 
ever he  came  to  the  warm  scent  of  the  last  night's  spoor. 
He  was  hungry.  He  had  been  hungry  all  the  way  over  the 
mountains.  Three  times  that  day  David  saw  a  caribou  at 
a  distance.  In  the  afternoon  he  saw  a  grizzly  on  a  green 
slope.  Toward  evening  he  ran  into  luck.  A  band  of 
sheep  had  come  down  from  a  mountain  to  drink,  and  he 
came  upon  them  suddenly,  the  wind  in  his  favour.  He 
killed  a  young  ram.  For  a  full  minute  after  firing  the  shot 
ke  stood  in  his  tracks,  scarcely  breathing.  The  report  of 
his  rifle  was  like  an  explosion.  It  leaped  from  mountain 
to  mountan,  echoing,  deepening,  coming  back  to  him  in 
murmuring  intonations,  and  dying  out  at  last  in  a  sighing 
gasp.    It  was  a  weird  and  disturbing  sound.    He  fancied 


184     THE  COUBAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE 

that  it  could  be  heard  many  miles  away.  That  night  the 
two  feasted  on  fresh  meat. 

It  was  their  fifth  day  in  the  valley  when  they  came  to  a 
break  in  the  western  wall  of  the  range,  and  through  this 
break  flowed  a  stream  that  was  very  much  like  the  Stikine, 
broad  and  shallow  and  ribboned  with  shifting  bars  of 
sand.  David  made  up  his  mind  that  it  must  be  the  Fire- 
pan, and  he  could  feel  his  pulse  quicken  as  he  started  up  it 
with  Baree.  He  must  be  quite  near  to  Tavish's  cabin,  if 
it  had  not  been  destroyed.  Even  if  it  had  been  burned  on 
account  of  the  plague  that  had  infested  it,  he  would  surely 
discover  the  charred  ruins  of  it.  It  was  three  o'clock  when 
he  started  up  the  creek,  and  he  was — ^inwardly — ^much 
agitated.  He  grew  more  and  more  positive  that  he  was 
close  to  the  end  of  his  adventure.  He  would  soon  come 
upon  life — ^himaan  life.  And  then?  He  tried  to  dispel 
the  unsteadiness  of  his  emotions,  the  swiftly  growing  dis- 
comfort  of  a  great  anxiety.  The  first,  of  course,  would  be 
Tavish's  cabin,  or  the  ruins  of  it.  He  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  Tavish's  location  would  be  here,  near  the 
confluence  of  the  two  streams.  A  hunter  or  prospector 
would  naturally  choose  such  a  position. 

He  travelled  slowly,  questing  both  sides  of  the  stream, 
and  listening.  He  expected  at  any  moment  to  hear  a 
sound,  a  new  kind  of  sound.  And  he  also  scrutinized 
closely  the  dean,  white  bars  of  sand.  There  were  foot- 
prints in  them,  of  the  wild  things.  Once  his  heart  gave  a 
sudden  jump  when  he  saw  a  bear  track  that  looked  very 
much  like  a  moccasin  track.  It  was  a  wonderful  bear 
country.  Their  signs  were  everywhere  along  the  stream, 
and  their  number  and  freshness  made  Baree  restless. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     185 

David  travelled  until  dark.  He  had  the  desire  to  go  on 
even  then.  He  built  a  small  fire  instead,  and  cooked  his 
supper.  For  a  long  time  after  that  he  sat  in  the  moonlight 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  still  listening.  He  tried  not  to  think. 
The  next  day  would  settle  his  doubts.  The  Girl?  What 
would  he  find.'*  He  went  to  sleep  late  and  awoke  with  the 
summer  dawn. 

The  stream  grew  narrower  and  the  country  wilder  as  he 
progressed.  It  was  noon  when  Baree  stopped  dead  in  his 
tracks,  stiff-legged,  the  bristles  of  his  spine  erect,  a  low 
and  ominous  growl  in  his  throat.  He  was  standing  over  a 
patch  of  white  sand  no  larger  than  a  blanket. 

"What  is  it,  boy?"  asked  David. 

He  went  to  him  casually,  and  stood  for  a  moment  at 
the  edge  of  the  sand  without  looking  down,  lighting  his 
pipe. 

"What  is  it?" 

The  next  moment  his  heart  seemed  rising  up  into  his 
throat.  He  had  been  expecting  what  his  eyes  looked  upon 
now,  and  he  had  been  watching  for  it,  but  he  had  not 
anticipated  such  a  tremendous  shock.  The  imprint  of  a 
moccasined  foot  in  the  sand!  There  was  no  doubt  of  it 
this  time.  A  human  foot  had  made  it — one,  two,  three, 
four,  five  times — in  crossing  that  patch  of  sand!  He 
stood  with  the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  staring  down,  apparently 
without  power  to  move  or  breathe.  It  was  a  small  foot- 
print. Like  a  boy's.  He  noticed,  then,  with  slowly 
shifting  eyes,  that  Baree  was  bristling  and  growling  over 
another  track.  A  bear  track,  huge,  deeply  impressed  in 
the  sand.  The  beast's  great  spoor  crossed  the  outer  edge 
of  the  sand,  following  the  direction  of  the  moccasin  tracks. 


186     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

It  was  thrillingly  fresh,  if  Baree's  bristling  spine  and  rum- 
bling voice  meant  anything. 

David's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  cwo  trails. 
A  hundred  yards  upstream  he  could  see  where  gravel  antl 
rock  were  replaced  entirely  by  sand,  quite  a  wide,  unbroken 
sweep  of  it,  across  which  those  clawed  and  moccasined 
feet  must  have  travelled  if  they  had  followed  the  creek. 
He  was  not  interested  in  the  bear,  and  Baree  was  not 
interested  in  the  Indian  boy;  so  when  they  came  to  the 
sand  one  followed  the  moccasin  tracks  and  the  other  the 
claw  tracks.  They  were  not  at  any  time  more  than  ten 
feet  apart.  And  then,  all  at  once,  they  came  together, 
and  David  saw  that  the  bear  had  crossed  the  sand  last 
and  that  his  huge  paws  had  obliterated  a  part  of  the 
moccasin  trail.  This  did  not  strike  him  as  unusually 
significant  until  he  came  to  a  point  where  the  moccasins 
turned  sharply  and  circled  to  the  right.  The  bear  fol- 
lowed. A  little  farther — and  David's  heart  gave  a  sudden 
thump!  At  first  it  might  have  been  coincidence,  a  bit  of 
chance.  It  was  chance  no  longer.  It  was  deliberate. 
The  claws  were  on  the  trail  of  the  moccasins.  David 
halted  and  pocketed  his  pipe,  on  which  he  had  not  drawn 
a  breath  in  several  minutes.  He  looked  at  his  rifle,  making 
sure  that  it  was  ready  for  action.  Baree  was  growling. 
His  white  fangs  gleamed  and  lurid  lights  were  in  his  eyes 
as  he  gazed  ahead  and  sniffed.  David  shuddered.  With- 
out doubt  the  claws  had  overtaken  the  moccasins  by  this 
time. 

It  was  a  grizzly.  He  guessed  so  much  by  the  size  of  the 
spoor.  He  followed  it  across  a  bar  of  gravel.  Then  they 
turned  a  twist  in  the  creek  and  came  to  other  sand. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     187 

Aery  of  amazement  bm'st  from  David's  lips  when  he  looked 
closely  at  the  two  trails  again. 

The  moccasins  were  now  following  the  grizzly  I 
He  stared,  for  a  few  moments  disbelieving  his  eyes. 
Here,  too,  there  was  no  room  for  doubt.  The  feet  of  the 
Indian  boy  had  trodden  in  the  tracks  of  the  bear.  The 
evidence  was  conclusive;  the  fact  astonishing.  Of  course, 
it  was  barely  possible     ... 

Whatever  the  thought  might  have  been  in  David's 
mind,  it  never  reached  a  conclusion.  He  did  not  cry  out 
at  what  he  saw  after  that.  He  made  no  sound.  Perhaps 
he  did  not  even  breathe.  But  it  was  there — under  his 
eyes;  inexplicable,  amazing,  not  to  be  easily  believed.  A 
third  time  the  order  of  the  mysterious  footprints  in  the 
sand  was  changed — and  the  grizzly  was  now  following  the 
boy,  obliterating  almost  entirely  the  indentures  in  the 
sand  of  his  small,  moccasined  feet.  He  wondered  whether 
it  was  possible  that  his  eyes  had  gone  b^d  on  him,  or  that 
his  mind  had  slipped  out  of  its  normal  groove  and  was 
tricking  him  with  weirdly  absurd  hallucinations.  So  what 
happened  in  almost  that  same  breath  did  not  startle  him 
as  it  might  otherwise  have  done.  It  was  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment simply  another  assurance  of  his  insanity;  and  if  the 
mountains  had  suddenly  turned  over  and  balanced  them- 
selves on  their  peaks  their  gymnastics  would  not  have 
frozen  him  into  a  more  speechless  stupidity  than  did  the 
Girl  who  rose  before  him  just  then,  not  twenty  paces 
away.  She  had  emerged  like  an  apparition  from  behind  a 
great  boulder — a  little  older,  a  little  taller,  a  bit  wilder 
than  she  had  seemed  to  him  in  the  picture,  but  with  that 
same  glorious  hair  sweeping  about  her,  and  that  same 


188     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

questioning  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  stared  at  him.  Her 
hands  were  in  that  same  way  at  her  side,  too,  as  if  she 
were  on  the  point  of  rmming  away  from  him.  He  tried  to 
speak.  He  believed,  afterward,  tliat  he  even  made  an 
effort  to  hold  out  his  arms.  But  he  was  powerless.  And 
so  they  stood  there,  twenty  paces  apart,  staring  as  if  they 
had  met  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Something  happened  then  to  whip  David's  reason  back 
into  its  place.  He  heard  a  crunching — heavy,  slow. 
From  around  the  other  end  of  the  boulder  came  a  huge  bear. 
A  monster.  Ten  feet  from  the  girl.  The  first  cry  rushed 
out  of  his  throat.  It  was  a  warning,  and  in  the  same 
instant  he  raised  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  The  girl  was 
quicker  than  he — like  an  arrow,  a  flash,  a  whirlwind  of 
burnished  tresses,  as  she  flew  to  the  side  of  the  great  beast. 
She  stood  wdth  her  back  against  it,  her  two  hands  clutching 
its  tawny  hair,  her  sUm  body  quivering,  her  eyes  flashing 
at  David.  He  felt  weak.  He  lowered  his  rifle  and  ad- 
vanced a  few  steps. 

"Who  .  .  .  what  .  .  ."  he  managed  to  say; 
and  stopped.  He  was  powerless  to  go  on.  But  she  seemed 
to  understand.    Her  body  stiffened. 

"I  am  Marge  0*Doone,'*  she  said  defiantly,  **and  this  is 
my  bear!" 


CHAPTER  XVn 

SHE  was  splendid  as  she  stood  there,  an  exquisite 
human  touch  in  the  savageness  of  the  world  about 
her — and  yet  strangely  wild  as  she  faced  David, 
protecting  with  her  own  quivering  body  the  great  beast 
behind  her.  To  David,  in  the  first  immensity  of  his  as- 
tonishment, she  had  seemed  to  be  a  woman;  but  now  she 
looked  to  him  like  a  child,  a  very  young  girl.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  way  her  hair  fell  in  a  tangled  riot  of  curling 
tresses  over  her  shoulders  and  breast;  the  slimness  of  her; 
the  shortness  of  her  skirt;  the  unfaltering  clearness  of  the 
great,  blue  eyes  that  were  staring  at  him;  and,  above  all 
else,  the  manner  in  which  she  had  spoken  her  name.  The 
bear  might  have  been  nothing  more  than  a  rock  to  him 
now,  against  which  she  was  leaning.  He  did  not  hear 
Baree's  low  growling.  He  had  travelled  a  long  way  to 
find  her,  and  now  that  she  stood  there  before  him  in  flesfa 
and  blood  he  was  not  interested  in  much  else.  It  was  a 
rather  difficult  situation.  He  had  known  her  so  long,  she 
had  been  with  him  so  constantly,  filling  even  his  dreams, 
that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  find  words  in  which  to  begin 
speech.  When  they  did  come  they  were  most  common- 
place; his  voice  was  quiet,  with  an  assured  and  protecting 
note  in  it. 

"My  name  is  David  Raine,"  he  said.     "I  have  comea 
great  dbtance  to  find  you." 

189 


190     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

It  was  a  simple  and  unemotional  statement  of  fact, 
with  nothing  that  was  alarming  in  it,  and  yet  the  girl 
shrank  closer  against  her  bear.  The  huge  brute  was 
standing  without  the  movement  of  a  muscle,  his  smaU 
reddish  eyes  fixed  on  David. 

"  I  won't  go  back ! "  she  said.     " I'll— fight ! " 

Her  voice  was  clear,  direct,  defiant.  Her  hands  ap- 
peared from  behind  her,  and  her  httle  fists  were  clenched. 
With  a  swift  movement  she  tossed  her  hair  back  from  about 
her  face.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  but  dark  as  thunder  clouds 
in  their  gathering  fierceness.  She  was  like  a  child,  and 
yet  a  woman.  A  ferocious  little  person.  Ready  to  fight. 
Ready  to  spring  at  him  if  he  approached.  Her  eyes 
never  left  his  face. 

"  I  won't  go  back ! "  she  repeated.     "  I  won't ! " 

He  was  noticing  other  things  about  her.  Her  moo 
casins  were  in  tatters.  Her  short  skirt  was  torn.  Her 
shining  hair  was  in  tangles.  As  she  swept  it  back  from 
her  face  he  saw  under  her  eyes  the  darkness  of  exhaustion; 
in  her  cheeks  a  wanness,which  he  did  not  know  just  then 
was  caused  by  hunger,  and  by  her  struggle  to  get  away 
from  something.  On  the  back  of  one  of  her  clenched  hands 
was  a  deep,  red  scratch.  The  look  in  his  face  must  have 
given  the  girl  some  inkling  of  the  truth.  She  leaned  a 
little  forward,  quickly  and  eagerly,  and  demanded: 

"Didn't  you  come  from  the  Nest?  Didn't  they  send 
you — after  me.^" 

She  pointed  down  the  narrow  valley,  her  lips  parted  as 
she  waited  for  his  answer,  her  hair  rioting  over  her  breast 
again  as  she  bent  toward  him. 

"I've  come  fifteen  himdred  miles — ^from  that  direction," 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     191 

said  David,  swinging  an  arm  toward  the  backward  moun- 
tains. "IVe  never  been  in  this  country  before.  I  don*t 
know  where  the  Nest  is,  or  what  it  is.  And  I*m  not 
going  to  take  you  back  to  it  unless  you  want  to  go.  If 
some  one  is  coming  after  you,  and  you're  bound  to  fight, 
I'll  help  you.     Will  that  bear  bite?  " 

He  swung  off  his  pack  and  put  down  his  gun.  For  a 
moment  the  girl  stared  at  him  with  widening  eyes.  The 
fear  went  out  of  them  slowly.  Her  hand  unclenched,  and 
suddenly  she  turned  to  the  big  grizzly  and  clasped  her 
bared  arms  about  the  shaggy  monster's  neck. 

"Tara,  Tara,  it  isn't  one  of  them!"  she  cried.  "It 
isKi't  one  of  them — and  we  tiiought  it  was!" 

She  whirled  on  David  with  a  suddenness  that  took  his 
bieath  away.  It  was  like  the  swift  turning  of  a  bird. 
H<e  had  never  seen  a  movement  so  quick. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  flung  at  him,  as  if  she  had  not 
already  heard  his  name.  "Why  are  you  here?  What 
business  have  you  going  up  there — to  the  Nest?" 

"I  don't  like  that  bear,"  said  David  dubiously,  as  the 
grizzly  made  a  slow  movement  toward  him. 

"Tara  won't  hurt  you,"  she  said.  "Not  unless  you  put 
your  hands  on  me,  and  I  scream.  I've  had  him  ever  since 
he  was  a  baby  and  he  has  never  hurt  any  one  yet.  But — 
he  idU  1 "  Her  eyes  glowed  darkly  again,  and  her  voice 
had  a  strange,  hard  little  note  in  it.  "I've  been  .  .  • 
training  him,"  she  added.  "Tell  me — why  are  you  going 
to  the  Nest?" 

It  was  a  point-blank,  determined  question,  with  still  a 
hint  of  suspicion  in  it;  and  her  eyes,  as  she  asked  it,  were 
the  clearest,  steadiest,  bluest  eyes  he  had  ever  looked  into. 


192    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE 

He  was  finding  it  hard  to  live  up  to  what  he  had  expected 
©f  himself.  Manj  times  he  had  thought  of  what  he  would 
say  when  he  found  this  girl,  if  he  ever  did  find  her;  but  he 
had  anticipated  something  a  little  more  conventional,  and 
had  believed  that  it  would  be  quite  the  easiest  matter  in 
the  world  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  why  he  had  come,  and  to 
tell  it  all  convincingly  and  understandably.  He  had  not, 
in  short,  expected  the  sort  of  little  person  who  stood  there 
against  her  bear — a.  very  diflficult  Httle  person  to  approach 
easily  and  with  assurance — ^half  woman  and  half  child, 
and  beautifully  wild.  She  was  not  disappointing.  She 
was  greatly  appealing.  When  he  surveyed  her  in  a  par- 
ticularizing way,  as  he  did  swiftly,  there  was  an  exquisite- 
ness  about  her  that  gave  him  pleasureable  thrills.  But  it 
was  all  wild.  Even  her  hair,  an  amazing  glory  of  tangled 
curls,  was  wild  in  its  disorder;  she  seemed  palpitating  with 
that  wildness,  like  a  fawn  that  had  been  run  into  a  corner — 
no,  not  a  fawn,  but  some  beautiful  creature  that  could  and 
would  fight  desperately  if  need  be.  That  was  his  impres- 
sion. He  was  undergoing  a  smashing  of  his  conceptions 
of  this  girl  as  he  had  visioned  her  from  the  picture,  and  a 
readjustment  of  her  as  she  existed  for  him  now.  And  he 
was  not  disappointed.  He  had  never  seen  anything  quite 
like  this  Marge  O'Doone  and  her  bear.  O^Doone  I  His 
'mind  had  harked  back  quickly,  at  her  mention  of  that 
name,  to  the  woman  in  the  coach  of  the  Transcontinental, 
the  woman  who  was  seeking  a  man  by  the  name  of  Michael 
O'Doone.  Of  course  the  woman  was  her  mother.  Her 
name,  too,  must  have  been  0*Doone. 
fltVery  slowly  the  girl  detached  herself  from  her  bear* 
and  came  until  she  stood  within  three  steps  of  David* 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE        193 

•*Tara  won't  hurt  you,"  she  assured  him  again,  "unless 
I  scream.    He  would  tear  you  to  pieces,  then." 

K  she  had  betrayed  a  sudden  fear  at  his  first  appearance, 
it  was  gone  now.  Her  eyes  were  like  dark  rock-violets 
and  again  he  thought  them  the  bluest  and  most  fearless 
eyes  he  had  ever  seen.  She  was  less  a  child  now,  standing 
so  close  to  him;  her  slimness  made  her  appear  taller  than 
she  was.  David  knew  that  she  was  going  to  question  him, 
and  before  she  could  speak  he  asked: 

"Why  are  you  afraid  of  some  one  coming  after  you  from 
the  Nest,  BS^you  call  it?" 

"Because,"  she  repUed  with  quiet  fearlessness,  "I  am 
running  away  from  it." 

"Running  away!"  he  gasped.     "How  long    .     .     ." 

"Two  days." 

He  understood  now — ^her  ragged  moccasins,  her  frayed 
skirt,  her  tangled  hair,  the  look  of  exhaustion  about  her. 
It  came  upon  him  all  at  once  that  she  was  standing  un- 
steadily, swaying  sHghtly  like  the  slender  stem  of  a  flower 
stirred  by  a  breath  of  air,  and  that  he  had  not  noticed 
these  things  because  of  the  steadiness  and  clearness  of  her 
wonderful  eyes.  He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  He 
forgot  the  bear.  His  hand  seized  hers — ^the  one  with  the 
deep,  red  scratch  on  it — and  drew  her  to  a  flat  rock  a  few 
steps  away.  She  followed  him,  keeping  her  eyes  on  him  in 
a  wondering  sort  of  way.  The  grizzly's  reddish  eyes  were 
on  David.  A  few  yards  away  Baree  was  lying  flat  on  his 
belly  between  two  stones,  his  eyes  on  the  bear.  It  was  a 
strange  scene  and  rather  weirdly  incongruous.  David 
no  longer  sensed  it.  He  still  held  the  girl's  hand  as  he 
seated  her  on  the  rock,  and  he  looked   into   her  eyes, 


194     THE  COURA.GE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE 

smiling  confidently.  She  was,  after  all,  his  little  chum— • 
the  Girl  who  had  been  with  him  ever  since  that  first  night's 
vision  in  Thoreau's  cabin,  and  who  had  helped  him  to  win 
that  great  fight  he  had  made;  the  girl  who  had  cheered 
and  inspired  him  during  many  months,  and  whom  he  had 
come  fifteen  hundred  miles  to  see.  He  told  her  this. 
At  first  she  possibly  thought  him  a  little  mad.  Her  eyes 
betrayed  that  suspicion,  for  she  uttered  not  a  word  to 
break  in  on  his  story;  but  after  a  little  her  lips  parted,  her 
breath  came  a  little  more  quickly,  a  flush  grew  in  her 
cheeks.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing  in  her  life,  this  story, 
no  matter  if  the  man  was  a  bit  mad,  or  even  an  impostor. 
He  at  least  was  very  real  in  this  moment,  and  he  had  told 
the  story  without  excitement,  and  with  an  immeasurable 
degree  of  confidence  and  quiet  tenderness — as  though  he 
had  been  simplifying  the  strange  tale  for  the  ears  of  a 
child,  which  in  fact  he  had  been  endeavouring  to  do;  for 
with  the  flush  in  her  cheeks,  her  parted  lips,  and  her  soft- 
ening eyes,  she  looked  to  him  more  like  a  child  now  than 
ever.  His  manner  gave  her  great  faith.  But  of  course  she 
was,  deep  in  her  trembling  soul,  quite  incredulous  that  he 
should  have  done  all  these  things  for  her — incredulous 
until  he  ended  his  story  with  that  day's  travel  up  the 
valley,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  showed  to  her — as  a 
proof  of  all  he  had  said — the  picture. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  then.  It  was  the  first  sound  that 
had  broken  past  her  lips,  and  she  clutched  the  picture  in 
her  hands  and  stared  at  it;  and  David,  looking  down,  could 
see  nothing  but  that  shining  disarray  of  curls,  a  rich  and 
wonderful  brown  in  the  sunlight,  clusteriAg  about  her 
shoulders  and  falling  thickly  to  her  waist.     He  thought  it 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     195 

indescribably  beautiful,  in  spite  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  curls  and  tresses  had  tangled  themselves.  They  hid 
her  face  as  she  bent  over  the  picture.  He  did  not  sp>eak. 
He  waited,  knowing  that  in  a  moment  or  two  all  that  he  had 
guessed  at  would  be  clear,  and  that  when  the  girl  looked 
up  she  would  tell  him  about  the  picture,  and  why  she  hap- 
pened to  be  here,  and  not  with  the  woman  of  the  coach, 
who  must  have  been  her  mother. 

When  at  last  she  did  look  up  from  the  picture  her  eyes 
were  big  and  staring  and  filled  with  a  mysterious  ques- 
tioning. 

David,  feeling  quite  sure  of  himself,  said: 
'    "  How  did  it  happen  that  you  were  away  up  here,  and  not 
with  your  mother  that  night  when  I  met  her  on  the  train?  ** 

"She  wasn't  my  mother,"  replied  the  girl,  looking  at 
him  still  in  that  strange  way.     "My  mother  is  dead," 


CHAPTER  XVm 

l^FTER  that  quietly  spoken  fact  that  her  mother  was 
ZJ^  dead,  David  waited  for  Marge  O'Doone  to  make 
«A.  ^  some  fmther  explanation.  He  had  so  firmly  con- 
vinced himself  that  the  pictiu*e  he  had  carried  was  the  key 
to  aU  that  he  wanted  to  know — ^first  from  Tavish,  if  he  had 
lived,  and  now  from  the  girl — ^that  it  took  him  a  moment 
or  two  to  imderstand  what  he  saw  in  his  companion's 
face.  He  realized  then  that  his  possession  of  the  picture 
and  the  manner  in  which  it  had  come  into  his  keeping 
were  matters  of  great  perplexity  to  her,  and  that  the 
woman  whom  he  had  met  in  the  Transcontinental  held 
no  significance  for  her  at  all,  although  he  had  told  her  with 
rather  marked  emphasis  that  this  woman — ^whom  he  had 
thought  was  her  mother — ^had  been  searching  for  a  man 
who  bore  her  own  name,  O'Doone.  The  girl  was  plainly 
expecting  him  to  say  something,  and  he  reiterated  this 
fact — ^that  the  woman  in  the  coach  was  very  anxious 
to  find  a  man  whose  name  was  O'Doone,  and  that  it  was 
quite  reasonable  to  suppose  that  her  name  was  O'Doone, 
especially  as  she  had  with  her  this  pictmre  of  a  girl 
bearing  that  name.  It  seemed  to  him  a  powerful  and 
utterly  convincing  argument.  It  was  a  combination 
of  facts  difficult  to  get  away  from  without  certain  con- 
clusions, but  this  girl  who  was  so  near  to  him  that  he  could 
almost  feel  her  breath  did  not  appear  fully  to  comprehend 

196 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  ODOONE     197 

their  significance.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  wide-open, 
wondering  eyes,  and  when  he  had  finished  she  said  again: 

"My  mother  is  dead.  And  my  father  is  dead»  too. 
And  my  aunt  is  dead — up  at  the  Nest.  There  isn't  any  one 
left  but  my  uncle  Hauck,  and  he  is  a  brute.  And  Brokaw. 
He  is  a  bigger  brute.  It  was  he  who  made  me  let  him  take 
this  picture — two  years  ago.  I  have  been  training  Tara  to 
kill — to  kill  any  one  that  touches  me,  when  I  scream." 

It  was  wonderful  to  watch  her  eyes  darken,  to  see  her 
pupils  grow  big  and  luminous.  She  did  not  look  at  the 
pictvu-e  clutched  in  her  hands,  but  straight  at  him. 

"He  caught  me  there,  near  the  creek.  He  frightened 
me.  He  made  me  let  him  take  it.  He  wanted  me  to  take 
offmy    .     .     ." 

A  flood  of  wild  blood  rushed  into  her  face.  In  her  heart 
was  a  fury. 

"I  wouldn't  be  afraid  now — ^not  of  him  alone,"  she  cried. 
"I  would  scream — and  fight,  and  Tara  would  tear  him 
into  pieces.  Oh,  Tara  knows  how  to  do  it — now  !  I  have 
trained  him.*' 

"He  compelled  you  to  let  him  take  the  picture,"  urged 
David  gently.     "And  then     ..." 

"I  saw  one  of  the  pictures  afterward.  My  aunt  had  it. 
I  wanted  to  destroy  it,  because  I  hated  it,  and  I  hated 
him.  But  she  said  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  keep  it. 
She  was  sick  then.  ,  I  loved  her.  She  would  put  her  arms 
around  me  every  day.  She  used  to  kiss  me,  nights,  when 
I  went  to  bed.  But  we  were  afraid  of  Hauck — I  don't 
call  him  *  uncle.'  iS/t^  was  afraid  of  him.  Once  I  jumped 
at  him  and  scratched  his  face  when  he  swore  at  her,  and  he 
pulled  my  hair.     Ugh,  I  can  feel  it  now!    After  that  she 


198     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

used  to  cry,  and  she  always  put  her  arms  around  me 
closer  than  ever.  She  died  that  way,  holding  my  liead 
down  to  her,  and  trying  to  say  something.  But  I  couldn't 
understand.  I  was  crying.  That  was  six  months  ago. 
Since  then  I've  been  training  Tara — ^to  kill." 

"And  why  have  you  trained  Tara,  little  girl?" 

David  took  her  hand.  It  lay  warm  and  unresisting  in 
his,  a  firm,  very  little  hand.  He  could  feel  a  slight  shudder 
pass  through  her. 

"I  heard — something,"  she  said.  "The  Nest  is  a 
terrible  place.  Hauck  is  terrible.  Brokaw  is  terrible. 
And  Hauck  sent  away  somewhere  up  there" — she  pointed 
northward — "for  Brokaw.  He  said — ^I  belonged  to  Bro- 
kaw.    What  did  he  mean?" 

She  turned  so  that  she  could  look  straight  into  David's 
eyes.  She  was  hard  to  answer.  If  she  had  been  a 
woman     .     .     . 

She  saw  the  slow,  gathering  tenseness  in  David's  face  as 
he  looked  for  a  moment  away  from  her  bewildering  eyes — 
the  hardening  muscles  of  his  jaws;  and  her  own  hand 
tightened  as  it  lay  in  his. 

"What  did  Haack  mean?"  she  persisted.  "Why  do  I 
belong  to  Brokaw — that  great,  red  brute?" 

The  hand  he  had  been  holding  he  took  between  both  his 
palms  in  a  gentle,  comforting  way.  His  voice  was  gentle, 
too,  but  the  hard  lines  did  not  leave  his  face. 

"How  old  are  you,  Marge?"  he  asked. 

"Seventeen,"  she  said. 

"And  I  am — thirty-eight."  He  tiu'ned  to  smile  at  her. 
^'See  .  .  ."  He  raised  a  hand  and  took  off  his  hat. 
••My  hair  is  getting  gray!" 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     19& 

She  looked  up  swiftly,  and  then,  so  suddenly  that  it 
took  his  breath  away,  her  fingers  were  running  back 
through  his  thick  blond  hair. 

"A  little,"  she  said.     "But  you  are  not  old." 

She  dropped  her  hand.  Her  whole  movement  had  been 
innocent  as  a  child's. 

"  And  yet  I  am  quite  old,"  he  assured  her.  **  Is  this  man 
Brokaw  at  the  Nest,  Marge?" 

She  nodded. 

"He  has  been  there  a  month.  He  came  after  Hauck 
sent  for  him,  and  went  away  again.     Then  he  came  back.'* 

"And  you  are  now  running  away  from  him?" 

"From  all  of  them,"  she  said.  "If  it  were  just  Brokaw 
I  wouldn't  be  afraid.  I  would  let  him  catch  me,  and 
scream.  Tara  would  kill  him  for  me.  But  it's  Hauck, 
too.  And  the  others.  They  are  worse  since  Nisikoos 
died.  That  is  what  I  called  her — Nisikoos — my  aunt. 
They  are  all  terrible,  and  they  all  frighten  me,  especially 
since  they  began  to  build  a  great  cage  for  Tara.  Why 
should  they  build  a  cage  for  Tara,  out  of  small  trees?* 
Why  do  they  want  to  shut  him  up?  None  of  them  will 
tell  me.  Hauck  says  it  is  for  another  bear  that  Brokaw  is 
bringing  down  from  the  Yukon.  But  I  know  they  are 
lying.  It  is  for  Tara."  Suddenly  her  fingers  clutched 
tightly  at  his  hand,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  under  her 
long,  shimmering  lashes  the  darkening  fire  of  a  real  terror. 
"Why  do  I  belong  to  Brokaw?"  she  asked  again,  a  little 
tremble  in  her  voice.  "  Why  did  Hauck  say  that  ?  Can — 
can  a  man — ^buy  a  girl?" 

The  nails  of  her  slender  fingers  were  pricking  his  flesh. 
David  did  not  feel  their  hurt. 


200    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  ODOONE 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  trying  to  keep  his 
voice  steady.     "Did  that  man — ^Hauck — sell  you?" 

He  looked  away  from  her  as  he  asked  the  question.  Hft 
was  afraid,  just  then,  that  something  was  in  his  face  which 
he  did  not  want  her  to  see.  He  began  to  understand;  at 
least  he  was  beginning  to  picture  a  very  horrible  possi- 
bility. 

"I — don't — ^know,"  he  heard  her  say,  close  to  his 
shoulder.  "It  was  night  before  last  I  heard  them  quar- 
relling, and  I  crept  close  to  a  door  that  was  a  little  open, 
and  looked  in.  Brokaw  had  given  my  uncle  a  bag  of  gold, 
a  little  sack,  hke  the  miners  use,  and  I  heard  him  swear  at 
my  uncle,  and  say:  'That's  more  than  she  is  worth  but 
I'll  give  in.  Now  she's  mine!'  I  don't  know  why  it 
frightened  me  so.  It  wasn't  Brokaw.  I  guess  it  was  the 
terrible  look  in  that  man's  face — my  uncle's.  Tara  and  I 
ran  away  that  night.  Why  do  you  suppose  they  want  to 
put  Tara  in  a  cage?  Do  you  think  Brokaw  was  buying 
Tara  to  put  into  that  cage?    He  said  *she,'  not  *he'. " 

He  looked  at  her  again.  Her  eyes  were  not  so  fearless 
now, 

"Was  he  buying  Tara,  or  me?"  she  insisted. 

"Why  do  you  have  that  thought — ^that  he  was  buying 
you?^^    David  asked.     "Has  anything — ^happened?" 

A  second  time  a  fury  of  blood  leapt  into  her  face  and  hep 
lashes  shadowed  a  pair  of  blazing  stars. 

"He — ^that  red  brute — caught  me  in  the  dark  two  weeks 
ago,  and  held  me  there — and  kissed  me.'"  She  fairly 
panted  at  him,  springing  to  her  feet  and  standing  before 
him.  "I  would  have  screamed,  but  it  was  in  the  house, 
and  Tara  couldn't  have  come  to  me.    I  scratched  him,  and 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     201 

>=.  -^..  <■-, 

fought,  but  he  bent  my  head  back  until  it  hurt.  He  tried 
it  again  the  day  he  gave  my  uncle  the  gold,  but  I  struck 
him  with  a  stick,  and  got  away.  Oh,  I  hate  him !  And  he 
knows  it.  And  my  uncle  cursed  me  for  striking  him! 
And  that's  why    ,    .    .    I'm  running  away." 

"I  understand,"  said  David,  rising  and  smiling  at  her 
confidently,  while  in  his  veins  his  blood  was  running  like 
little  streams  of  fire.  "Don't  you  beUeve,  now,  all  that 
I've  told  you  about  the  picture?  How  it  tried  so  hard  to 
talk  to  me,  and  tell  me  to  hurry?  It  got  me  here  just 
about  in  time,  didn't  it?  It'll  be  a  great  joke  on  Brokaw, 
little  girl.  And  yom*  uncle  Hauck.  A  great  joke,  eh?" 
He  laughed.  He  felt  like  laughing,  even  as  his  blood 
pounded  through  him  at  fever  heat.  "You're  a  little 
brick.  Marge — ^you  and  your  bear!" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  thought  of  the  bear  since 
Marge  had  detached  herself  from  the  big  beast  to  come  to 
him,  and  as  he  looked  in  its  direction  he  gave  a  startled 
exclamation. 

Baree  and  the  grizzly  had  been  measuring  each  other 
for  some  time.  To  Baree  this  was  the  most  amazing 
experience  in  all  his  life,  and  flattened  out  between  the  two 
rocks  he  was  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  why  his  master  did 
not  either  run  or  shoot.  He  wanted  to  jump  out,  if  his 
master  showed  fight,  and  leap  straight  at  that  ugly  mon- 
ster, or  he  wanted  to  run  away  as  fast  as  his  legs  would 
carry  him.  He  was  shivering  in  indecision,  waiting  a 
signal  from  David  to  do  either  one  or  the  other.  And 
Tara  was  now  moving  slowly  toward  the  dog!  His  huge 
head  was  hung  low,  swinging  slightly  from  side  to  side  in  a 
most  terrifying  way;  his  great  jaws  were  agape,  and  the 


202     THE  COURAGE  OF  MAUGE  O^DOONE 

nearer  he  came  to  Baree  the  smaller  the  dog  seemed  to 
grow  between  the  rocks.  At  David's  sudden  cry  the  girl 
had  turned,  and  he  was  amazed  to  hear  her  laughter,  clear 
And  sweet  as  a  bell.  It  was  funny,  that  picture  of  the  dog 
and  the  bear,  if  one  was  in  the  mood  to  see  the  humour  of 
it! 

"Tara  won't  hurt  him,"  she  hurried  to  say,  seeing 
David's  uneasiness.  "He  loves  dogs.  He  wants  to 
play  with     .     .     .     what  is  his  name?" 

"Baree.     And  mine  is  David." 

"Baree—David.     See!" 

Like  a  bird  she  had  left  his  side  and  in  an  instant,  it 
seemed,  was  astride  the  big  grizzly,  digging  her  fingers  into 
Tara's  thick  coat — smiling  back  at  him,  her  radiant  hair 
about  her  like  a  cloud,  filled  with  marvellous  red-and-gold 
fires  in  the  sun. 

"Come,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  hand  to  David.  "I 
want  Tara  to  know  you  are  our  friend.  Because" — the 
darkness  came  into  her  eyes  again — "I  have  been  training 
him,  and  I  want  him  to  know  he  must  not  hurt  yow." 

David  went  to  them,  little  fancying  the  acquaintance 
he  was  about  to  make,  until  Marge  slipped  off  her  bear  and 
put  her  two  arms  mihesitatingly  about  his  shoulders,  and 
drew  him  down  with  her  close  in  front  of  Tara's  big  head 
and  round,  emotionless  eyes.  For  a  thrilling  moment  or 
two  she  pressed  her  face  close  to  his,  looking  all  the  time 
straight  at  Tara,  and  talking  to  him  steadily.  David  did 
not  sense  what  she  was  saying,  except  that  in  a  general 
way  she  was  telling  Tara  that  he  must  never  hurt  this  man, 
no  matter  what  happened.  He  felt  the  warm  crush  of  her 
hair  on  his  neck  and  face.     It  billowed  on  his  breast  for  a 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  ODOONE     203 

moment.  The  girrs  liand  touched  his  cheek,  warm  and 
caressing.  He  made  no  movement  of  his  own,  except  to 
rise  rigidly  when  she  miclasped  her  arms  from  about  his 
shoulders. 

"There;  he  won't  hurt  you  now!"  she  exclaimed  in 
triumph. 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming,  but  not  with  embarrassment. 
Her  eyes  were  as  clear  as  the  violets  he  had  crushed  under 
his  feet  in  the  mountain  valleys.  He  looked  at  her  as  she 
stood  before  him,  so  much  Hke  a  child,  and  yet  enough 
of  a  woman  to  make  his  own  cheeks  burn.  And  then  he 
saw  a  sudden  changing  expression  come  into  her  face* 
There  was  something  pathetic  about  it,  something  that 
made  him  see  again  what  he  had  forgotten — ^her  exhaustion, 
the  evidences  of  her  struggle.  She  was  looking  at  his 
pack. 

"We  haven't  had  anything  to  eat  since  we  ran  away,*^ 
she  said  simply.     "Fm  hungry." 

He  had  heard  children  say  "I'm  hungry"  in  that  same 
voice,  with  the  same  hopeful  and  entreating  insistence  in  it; 
he  had  spoken  those  words  himself  a  thousand  times,  to  his 
mother,  in  just  that  same  way,  it  seemed  to  him;  and  as 
she  stood  there,  looking  at  his  pack,  he  was  filled  with  a 
very  strong  desire  to  crumple  her  close  in  his  arms — ^not 
as  a  woman,  but  as  a  child.  And  this  desire  held  him  so 
still  for  a  moment  that  she  thought  he  was  waiting  for  her 
to  explain. 

"I  fastened  our  bundle  on  Tara's  back  and  we  lost  it 
in  the  night  coming  up  over  the  mountain,"  she  said. 
"It  was  so  steep  that  in  places  I  had  to  catch  hold  of 
Tara  and  let  him  drag  me  up." 


964  ^THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'BOONE^ 

In  another  moment  h^  was  at  his  pack,  opening  it,  and 
tossing  things  to  right  and  left  on  the  white  sand,  and  the 
girl  watched  him,  her  eyes  very  bright  with  anticipation. 

"Coffee,  bacon,  bannock,'and  potatoes," he  said,  making 
« a  quiik  inventory  of  his  small  stock  of  provisions. 

"Potatoes!**  cried  the  girl. 

**Yes — dehydrated.  See?  It  looks  like  rice.  One 
pound  of  this  equals  fourteen  pounds  of  potatoes.  And 
you  can't  tell  the  difference  when  it's  cooked  right.  Now 
for  a  fire!" 

She  was  darting  this  way  and  that,  collecting  small 
dry  sticks  in  the  sand  before  he  was  on  his  feet.  He 
could  not  resist  standing  for  a  moment  and  watching  her. 
Her  movAnents,  even  in  her  quick  and  eager  quest  of  fuel. 
Were  the  most  graceful  he  had  ever  seen  in  a  human  being. 
And  yet  she  was  tired!  She  was  hungry!  And  he  be- 
Eeved  that  her  feet,  concealed  in  those  rock-torn  moccasins, 
were  bruised  and  sore.  He  went  down  to  the  stream  for 
water,  and  in  the  few  moments  that  he  was  gone  his  mind 
worked  swiftly.  He  believed  that  he  understood,  perhaps 
ev»en  more  than  the  girl  herself.  There  was  something 
about  her  that  was  so  sweetly  childish — ^in  spite  of  her  age 
and  her  height  and  her  amazing  prettiness  that  was  not  all 
a  child's  prettiness — that  he  could  not  feel  that  she  had 
realized  fully  the  peril  from  which  she  was  fleeing  when  he 
found  her.  He  had  guessed  that  her  dread  was  only  partly 
for  herself  and  that  the  other  part  was  for  Tara,  her  bear. 
She  had  asked  him  in  a  sort  of  plaintive  anxiety  and  with 
rather  more  of  wonderment  and  perplexity  in  her  eyes 
than  fear,  whether  she  belonged  to  Brokaw,  and  what  it  all 
meant,  and  whether  a  man  could  buy  a  girl.    It  was  not  s 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE    205 

mystery  to  him  that  the  "red  brute"  she  had  told  him 
about  should  want  her.  His  puzzlement  was  that  such  a 
thing  could  happen,  if  he  had  guessed  right,  among 
men.  Buy  her?  Of  course  down  there  in  the  big  cities 
such  a  thing  had  happened  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
time9 — were  happening  every  day — but  he  could  not  easily 
picture  it  happening  up  here,  where  men  Uved  because  of 
their  strength.  There  must  surely  be  other  men  at  the 
Nest  than  the  two  hated  and  feared  by  the  girl — ^Hauck, 
her  uncle,  and  Brokaw,  the  "red  brute." 

She  had  built  a  httle  pile  of  sticks  and  dry  moss  ready 
for  the  touch  of  a  match  when  he  returned.  Tara  had 
stretched  himself  out  lazily  in  the  sun  and  Baree  was  still 
between  the  two  rocks,  eyeing  him  watchfully.  Before 
David  Hghted  the  fire  he  spread  his  one  blanket  out  on  the 
sand  and  made  the  Girl  sit  down.  She  was  close  to  him, 
and  her  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face  for  an  instant.  When- 
ever he  looked  up  she  was  gazing  straight  at  him,  and  when 
he  went  down  to  the  creek  for  another  pail  of  water  he  felt 
that  her  eyes  were  still  on  him.  When  he  turned  to  come 
back,  with  fifty  paces  between  them,  she  smiled  at  him  and 
he  waved  his  hand  at  her.  He  asked  her  a  great  many 
questions  while  he  prepared  their  dinner.  The  Nest, 
he  learned,  was  a  free-trading  place,  and  Hauck  was  its 
proprietor.  He  was  surprised  when  he  learned  that  he 
was  not  on  Firepan  Creek  after  all.  The  Firepan  was 
over  the  range,  and  there  were  a  good  many  Indians  to 
the  north  and  west  of  it.  Miners  came  down  frequently 
from  the  Taku  River  country  and  the  edge  of  the  Yukon, 
she  said.  At  least  she  thought  they  were  miners,  for  that 
is  what  Hauck  used  to  tell  Nisikoos,  her  aunt.    They  came 


206    THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

after  whisky.  Always  whisky.  And  the  Indians  came 
for  liquor,  too.  It  was  the  chief  article  that  Hauck,  her 
unde,  traded  in.  He  brought  it  from  the  coast,  in  the 
winter  time — many  sledge  loads  of  it;  and  some  of  those 
"miners"  who  came  down  from  the  north  carried  away 
much  of  it.  If  it  was  summer  they  would  take  it  away  on 
pack  horses.  What  would  they  do  with  so  much  Uquor, 
she  wondered?  A  little  of  it  made  such  a  beast  of  Hauck, 
and  a  beast  of  Brokaw,  and  it  drove  the  Indians  wild. 
Hauck  would  no  longer  allow  the  Indians  to  drink  it  at 
the  Nest.  They  had  to  take  it  away  with  them — into 
the  mountains.  Just  now  there  was  quite  a  number  of  the 
"miners"  down  from  the  north,  ten  or  twelve  of  them. 
She  had  not  been  afraid  when  Nisikoos,  her  aunt,  was  alive. 
But  now  there  was  no  other  woman  at  the  Nest,  except  an 
old  Indian  woman  who  did  Hauck's  cooking.  Hauck 
wanted  no  one  there.  And  she  was  afraid  of  those  men. 
They  all  feared  Hauck,  and  she  knew  that  Hauck  was 
afraid  of  Brokaw.  She  didn't  know  why,  but  he  was. 
And  she  was  afraid  of  them  all,  and  hated  them  all. 
She  had  been  quite  happy  when  Nisikoos  was  alive. 
Nisikoos  had  taught  her  to  read  out  of  books,  had  taught 
her  things  ever  since  she  could  remember,  ^e  could 
write  almost  as  well  as  Nisikoos.  She  said  this  a  bit 
proudly.  But  since  her  aunt  had  gone,  things  were 
terribly  changed.  Especially  the  men.  They  had  made 
her  more  afraid,  every  day. 

"None  of  them  is  like  you,"  she  said  with  startling 
frankness,  her  eyes  shining  at  him.  "I  would  love  to  be 
with  you!" 

He  turned,  then,  to  look  at  Tara  dozing  in  the  sun. 


CHAPTER  XrX 

THEY  ate,  facing  each  other,  on  a  clean,  flat  stone 
that  was  like  a  table.  There  was  no  hesitation  on 
the  girl's  part,  no  false  pride  in  the  concealment  of 
her  himger.  To  David  it  was  a  joy  to  watch  her  eat,  and 
to  catch  the  changing  exjH'essions  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
little  half -smiles  that  took  the  place  of  words  as  he  helped 
her  diligently  to  bacon  and  bannock  and  potatoes  and 
coffee.  The  bright  glow  went  only  once  out  of  her  eyes, 
and  that  was  when  she  looked  at  Tara  and  Baree. 

"Tara  has  been  eating  roots  all  day,"  she  said,  **But 
what  will  he  eat?  "  and  she  nodded  at  the  dog. 

"He  had  a  whistler  for  breakfast,"  David  assured  her. 
**  Fat  as  butter.  He  wouldn't  eat  now  anyway.  He  is  too 
much  interested  in  the  bear."  She  had  finished,  with  a 
little  sigh  of  content,  when  he  asked:  "What  do  you 
mean  when  you  say  that  you  have  trained  Tara  to  kill? 
Why  have  you  trained  him?" 

"I  began  the  day  after  Brokaw  did  that — ^held  me  there 
in  his  arms,  with  my  head  bent  back.  Ugh  I  he  was 
terrible,  with  his  face  so  close  to  mine!"  She  shuddered. 
"Afterward  I  washed  my  face,  and  scrubbed  it  hard, 
but  I  could  still  feel  it.  I  can  feel  it  now  I "  Her  eyes  were 
darkening  again,  as  the  sun  darkens  when  a  thunder  cloud 
passes  imder  it.  "I  wanted  te  make  Tara  imderstand 
what  he  must  do  after  that,  so  I  stole  some  of  Brokaw's 

Wi 


208     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE  , 

clothes  and  carried  them  up  to  a  little  plain  on  the  side  of 
the  mountain.  I  stuffed  them  with  grass,  and  made  a 
.  .  .  what  do  you  call  it?  In  Indian  it  is  issena-- 
Icoosewin    .    .    /' 

"A  dummy,"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  Then  I  would  go  with  it  a  little  distance 
from  Tara,  and  would  begin  to  struggle  with  it,  and 
scream.  The  third  time,  when  Tara  saw  me  lying  under 
it,  kicking  and  screaming,  he  gave  it  a  blow  with  his  paw 
that  ripped  it  clean  in  two!    And  after  that    .     .     .'* 

Her  eyes  were  glorious  in  their  wild  triumph. 

•*He  would  tear  it  into  bits,"  she  cried  breathlessly. 
"It  would  take  me  a  whole  day  to  mend  it  again,  and.  at 
last  I  had  to  steal  more  clothes.  I  took  Hauck's  this  trfcie. 
And  soon  they  were  gone,  too.  That  is  just  what  Tara 
will  do  to  a  man — ^when  I  fight  and  scream!" 

"And  a  Httle  while  ago  you  were  ready  to  jump  at  me, 
and  fight  and  scream!"  he  reminded  her,  smiling  across 
their  rock  table. 

"Not  after  you  spoke  to  me,"  she  said,  so  quickly  that 
the  words  seemed  to  spring  straight  from  her  heart.  "I 
wasn't  afraid  then.  I  was — ^glad.  No,  I  wouldn't  scream 
— ^not  even  if  you  held  me  like  Brokaw  did ! " 

He  feh  the  warm  blood  rising  under  his  skin  again.  It 
was  impossible  to  keep  it  down.  And  he  was  ashamed  of 
it — ashamed  of  the  thought  that  for  an  instant  was  in  his 
mind.  The  soul  of  the  wild,  little  mountain  creature  was 
in  her  eyes.  Her  lips  made  no  concealment  of  its  thoughts 
or  its  emotions,  pure  as  the  blue  skies  above  them  and  as 
nngovemed  by  conventionality  as  the  winds  that  shifted 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     209 

up  and  down  the  valleys.  She  was  a  new  sort  of  being  to 
him,  a  child- woman,  a  little  wonder-nymph  that  had  grown 
up  with  the  flowers.  And  yet  not  so  Uttle  after  all.  He 
had  noticed  that  the  top  of  her  shining  head  came  con- 
siderably above  his  chin. 

"Then  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  go  back  to  the  Nest — 
with  me?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  said  with  a  direct  and  amazing  confidence. 
"But  I'd  rather  run  away  with  you."  Then  she  added 
quickly,  before  he  could  sp>eak:  "Didn't  you  say  you  came 
all  that  way — ^hundreds  of  miles — ^to  find  me  ?  Then  why 
must  we  go  back?" 

He  explained  to  her  as  clearly  as  he  could,  and  as  reason 
seemed  to  poiat  out  to  him.  It  was  impossible,  he  assured 
her,  that  Brokaw  or  Hauck  or  any  other  man  could  harm 
her  now  that  he  was  here  to  take  care  of  her  and  straighten 
matters  out.  He  was  as  frank  with  her  as  she  had  been 
with  him.  Her  eyes  widened  when  he  told  her  that  he  did 
not  beheve  Hauck  was  her  uncle,  and  that  he  was  certain 
the  woman  whom  he  had  met  that  night  on  the  Trans- 
continental, and  who  was  searching  for  an  O'Doone,  had 
some  deep  interest  in  her.  He  must  discover,  if  possible, 
how  the  picture  had  got  to  her,  and  who  she  was,  and  he 
could  do  this  only  by  going  to  the  Nest  and  learning  the 
truth  straight  from  Hauck.  Then  they  would  go  on  to 
the  coast,  which  would  be  an  easy  journey.  He  told  her 
that  Hauck  and  Brokaw  would  not  dare  to  cause  them 
trouble,  as  they  were  carrying  on  a  business  of  which  the 
provincial  police  would  make  short  work,  if  they  knew  of 
it.  They  held  the  whip  hand,  he  and  Marge.  Her  eyes 
shone  with  increasing  faith  as  he  talked. 


^10     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

She  had  leaned  a  little  over  the  narrow  rock  betwe(?Q 
them  so  that  her  thick  curls  fell  in  shining  clusters  undur 
his  eyes,  and  suddenly  she  reached  out  her  arms  throu^fh 
them  and  her  two  hands  touched  his  face. 

"And  you  will  take  me  away?    You  promise?" 

"My  dear  child,  that  is  just  what  I  came  for,"  he  said, 
feigning  to  be  surprised  at  her  questions.  "Fifteen  hun- 
dred miles  for  just  that.  Now  don't  you  believe  all  that 
I Ve  told  you  about  the  picture?  *' 

"Yes,"  she  nodded. 

She  had  drawn  back,  and  was  looking  at  him  so  steadiJy 
and  with  such  wondering  depths  in  her  eyes  that  he  found 
himself  compelled  for  an  instant  to  turn  his  own  gaze  carte- 
lessly  away. 

"And  you  used  to  talk  to  it,"  she  said,  "and  it  seem^Jd 

"V^y  much  alive.  Marge." 

'*And  you  dreamed  about  me?" 

He  had  said  that,  and  he  felt  again  that  warm  rise  of 
blood.  He  felt  himself  in  a  diJEcult  place.  If  she  had 
been  older,  or  even  younger     ... 

"Yes,"  he  said  truthfully. 

He  feared  one  other  question  was  quite  uncomfortably 
near.  But  it  didn't  come.  The  girl  rose  suddenly  to  her 
feet,  flung  back  her  hair,  and  ran  to  Tara,  dozing  in  the 
sun.  What  she  was  saying  to  the  beast,  with  her  arms 
about  his  shaggy  neck,  David  could  only  guess.  He  found 
himsdf  laughing  again,  quietly  of  course,  with  his  back  to 
her,  as  he  picked  up  their  dinner  things.  He  had  not 
anticipated  such  an  experience  as  this.  It  rather  unsettled 
iiim.    It  was  amusing — ^and  had  a  decided  thrill  to  it. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  aDOONE     211 

Undoubtedly  Hauck  and  Brokaw  were  rough  men;  from 
what  she  had  told  him  he  was  convinced  they  w^re  lawless 
men,  engaged  in  a  very  wide  "underground**  trade  in 
whisky.  But  he  believed  that  he  would  not  find  them  as 
bad  as  he  had  pictured  them  at  first,  even  though  the  Nest 
was  a  horrible  place  for  the  girl.  Her  running  away  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world — for  her.  She  was  an 
amazingly  spontaneous  little  creature,  full  of  courage  and 
a  fierce  determination  to  fight  some  one,  but  probably  to- 
day or  to-morrow  she  would  have  been  forced  to  tiu-n 
homeward,  quite  exhausted  with  her  adventure,  and 
nibbling  roots  along  with  Tara  to  keep  herself  alive.  The 
thought  of  her  hunger  and  of  the  dire  necessity  in  which  he 
had  found  her,  drove  the  smile  from  his  lips.  He  was  fin- 
ishing his  pack  when  she  left  the  bear  and  came  to  him. 

"If  we  are  to  get  over  the  mountain  before  dark  we  must 
hurry,"  she  said.     "See — ^it  is  a  big  mountain!" 

She  pointed  to  a  barren  break  in  the  northward  range, 
close  up  to  the  snow-covered  peaks. 

"And  it's  cold  up  there  when  night  comes,"  she  added. 

"Can  you  make  it?"  David  asked.  "Aren't  you  tired.^ 
Your  feet  sore?     We  can  wait  here  until  morning     .     .     ." 

"I  can  climb  it,"  she  cried,  with  an  excitement  which  he 
had  not  seen  in  her  before.  "I  can  climb  it — and  travel 
all  night — to  tell  Brokaw  and  Hauck  I  don't  belong  to 
them  any  more,  and  that  we're  going  away!  Brokaw 
will  be  like  a  mad  beast,  and  before  we  go  I'll  scratch  his 
eyes  out!" 

"Good  Lord!"  gasped  David  under  his  breath. 

"And  if  Hauck  swears  at  me  I'll  scratch  his  out!"  she 
declared,  trembling  in  the  glorious  anticipation  of  her 


212     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

vengeance.  "I'll  .  .  .  I'll  scratch  his  out,  anyway, 
for  what  he  did  to  Nisikoos!" 

David  stared  at  her.  She  was  looking  away  from  him, 
her  eyes  on  the  break  between  the  momitains,  and  he 
noticed  how  tense  her  slender  body  had  become  and  how 
tightly  her  hands  were  clenched. 

"They  won't  dare  to  touch  me  or  swear  at  me  when  you 
are  there,"  she  added,  with  sublime  faith. 

She  turned  in  time  to  catch  the  look  in  his  face.  Swiftly 
the  excitement  faded  out  of  her  own.  She  touched  Ids 
arm,  hesitatingly. 

"Wouldn't  .  .  .  you  want  me  .  .  .  to  scratch 
out  their  eyes?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  wouldn't  do,"  he  said.  "We  must  be  very  careful. 
We  mustn't  let  them  know  you  ran  away.  We  must  tell 
them  you  climbed  up  the  mountain,  and  got  lost." 

"I  never  get  lost,"  she  protested. 

"But  we  must  tell  them  that  just  the  same,"  he  insisted. 
"Will  you.?" 

She  nodded  emphatically. 

"And  now,  before  we  start,  tell  me  why  they  haven't 
followed  you?" 

"Because  I  came  over  the  mountain,"  she  replied, 
pointing  again  toward  the  break.  "It's  all  rock,  and 
Tara  left  no  marks.  They  wouldn't  think  we'd  climb  over 
the  range.  They've  been  looking  for  us  in  the  other  valley 
if  they  have  hunted  for  us  at  all.  We  were  going  to  cHmb 
over  that  range,  too."  She  turned  so  that  she  was 
pointing  to  the  south, 

"And  then?" 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE     2U 

"There  are  people  over  there.  I've  heard  Hauck  talk 
about  them." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  him  speak  of  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Tavish?"  he  asked,  watching  her  closely. 

"Tavish?"  She  pursed  her  lips  into  a  red  "O,"  and 
little  lines  gathered  thoughtfully  between  her  eyes. 
"Tavish?    No-o-o,  I  never  have." 

"He  lived  at  one  time  on  Firepan  Creek,  Had  small- 
pox," said  David. 

"That  is  terrible,"  the  girl  shuddered.  "The  Indians 
die  ©f  it  up  here.  Hauck  says  that  my  father  and  mother 
died  of  small-pox,  before  I  could  remember.  It  is  all 
like  a  dream.  I  can  see  a  woman's  face  sometimes,  and  I 
can  remember  a  cabin,  and  snow,  and  lots  of  dogs.  Are 
you  ready  to  go?" 

He  shouldered  his  pack,  and  as  he  arranged  the  straps 
Marge  ran  to  Tara.  At  her  command  the  big  beast  rose 
slowly  and  stood  before  her,  swinging  his  head  from  side  to 
side,  his  jaws  agape.  David  called  to  Baree  and  the  dog 
came  to  him  like  a  streak  and  stood  against  his  leg,  snarling 
fiercely. 

"Tut,  tut,"  admonished  David,  softly,  laying  a  hand  on 
Baree's  head.     "  We're  all  friends,  boy.    Look  here ! " 

He  walked  straight  over  to  the  grizzly  and  tried  to 
induce  Baree  to  follow  him.  Baree  came  half  way  and 
then  sat  himself  on  his  haunches  and  refused  to  budge  an- 
other inch,  an  expression  so  doleful  in  his  face  that  it  drew^ 
from  the  girl's  lips  a  peal  of  laughter  in  which  David  found! 
it  impossible  not  to  join.  It  was  delightfully  infectious; 
he  was  laughing  more  with  her  than  at  Baree.  In  the 
same  breath  his  merriment  was  cut  short  by  an  unexpected* 


214     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOCM^E 

and  most  amazing  discovery.  Tara,  after  all,  had  his 
usefulness.  His  mistress  had  vaulted  astride  of  him,  and 
was  nudging  him  with  her  heels,  leaning  forward  so  that 
with  one  hand  she  was  pulling  at  his  left  ear.  The  bear 
turned  slowly,  his  finger-long  claws  clicking  on  the  stones, 
and  when  his  head  was  in  the  right  direction  Marge  re- 
leased his  ear  and  spK)ke  sharply,  beating  a  tattoo  with  her 
lieels  at  the  same  time. 

"Neah,  Tara,  Neah  /"  she  cried. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  in  which  the  grizaly  seemed 
to  be  getting  his  bearings,  Tara  struck  out  straight  for  the 
break  between  the  mountains,  with  his  burden.  The  girl 
turned  and  waved  a  beckoning  hand  at  David. 

'*Pao  I  you  must  hurry!"  she  called  to  him,  laughing  at 
the  astonishment  in  his  face. 

He  had  started  to  fill  his  pipe,  but  for  the  next  few  min- 
utes he  forgot  that  the  pipe  was  in  his  hand.  His  eyes 
did  not  leave  the  huge  beast,  ambling  along  a  dozen  paces 
ahead  of  him,  or  the  slip  of  a  girl  who  rode  him.  He  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Baree,  and  the  dog's  eyes  seemed  to  be 
bulgmg.  He  half  believed  that  his  own  mouth  was  open 
when  the  girl  called  to  him.  What  had  happened  was 
most  startJingly  unexpected,  and  what  he  stared  at  now  was 
a  wondrous  sight !  Tara  travelled  with  the  rolling,  slouch- 
ing gait  typical  of  the  wide-quartered  grizzly,  and  the  girl 
was  a  sinuous  part  of  him — by  all  odds  the  most  wonder- 
ful thing  in  the  world  to  David  at  this  moment.  Her  hair 
streamed  down  her  back  in  a  cascade  of  ^nht  glory.  She 
flung  back  her  head,  and  he  thought  of  a  wonderful 
golden-bronze  flower.  He  heard  her  laugh,  and  cry  out 
to  Tara,  and  when  the  grizzly  climbed  up  a  bit  of  steep 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     «15 

slide  she  leaned  forward  and  became  a  part  of  the  bear's 
back,  her  curls  shimmering  in  the  thick  ruff  of  Tara's 
neck.  As  he  toiled  upward  in  their  wake,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  looking  back  at  him  from  the  top  of  the 
slide,  her  eyes  shining  and  her  hps  smiling  at  him.  She 
reminded  him  of  something  he  had  read  about  Leucosia, 
his  favorite  of  the  "Three  Sirens,"  only  in  this  instance  it 
was  a  siren  of  the  mountains  and  not  of  the  sea  that  was 
leading  him  on  to  an  early  doom —  if  he  had  to  keep  up  with 
that  bear!  His  breath  came  more  quickly.  In  ten  min- 
utes he  was  gasping  for  wind,  and  in  despair  he  slackened 
his  pace  as  the  bear  and  his  rider  disappeared  over  the 
crest  of  the  first  slope.  She  was  waving  at  him  then, 
fully  two  hundred  yards  up  that  infernal  hill,  and  he  was 
sure  that  she  was  laughing.  He  had  almost  reached  the 
top  when  he  saw  her  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  rock,  watch- 
ing him  as  he  toiled  upward.  There  was  a  mischievous 
seriousness  in  the  blue  of  her  eyes  when  he  reached  her  side. 

"I*m  sorry,  Sakewawiriy*  she  said,  lowering  her  eyes 
until  they  were  hidden  under  the  silken  sheen  of  her  long 
lashes,  "I  couldn't  make  Tara  go  slowly.  He  is  hungry, 
and  he  knows  that  he  is  going  home." 

"And  I  thought  you  had  sore  feet,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"  I  don't  ride  him  going  down  a  mountain,"  she  explained, 
thrusting  out  her  ragged  little  feet.  "  I  can't  hang  on,  and 
I  slip  over  his  head.  You  must  walk  ahead  of  Tara.  That 
will  hold  him  back." 

He  tried  this  experiment  when  they  continued  their 
ascent,  and  Tara  followed  so  uncomfortably  close  that  at 
times  David  could  feel  his  warm  breath  against  his  hand. 
When  they  reached  the  second  slope  the  girl  walked  beside 


216     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

him.  For  a  half  mile  it  was  not  a  bad  climb  and  there 
was  soft  grass  underfoot.  After  that  came  the  rock  and 
shale,  and  the  air  grew  steadily  colder.  They  had  started 
at  one  o'clock  and  it  was  five  when  they  reached  the  first 
snow.  It  was  six  when  they  stood  at  the  summit.  Under 
them  lay  the  valley  of  the  Firepan,  a  broad,  sim-filled 
sweep  of  scattered  timber  and  green  plain,  and  the  girl 
pointed  into  it,  north  and  west. 

"Off  there  is  the  Nest,"  she  said.  "  We  could  almost  see 
it  if  it  weren't  for  that  big,  red  mountain." 

She  was  very  tired,  though  she  had  ridden  Tara  at  least 
two  thirds  of  the  distance  up  the  mountains.  In  her  eyes 
was  the  mistiness  of  exhaustion,  and  as  a  chill  wind  swept 
about  them  she  leaned  against  David,  and  he  could  feel 
that  her  endurance  was  nearly  gone.  As  they  had  come  up 
to  the  snow  line  he  had  made  her  put  on  the  light  woollen 
shirt  he  carried  in  his  pack;  and  the  big  handkerchief,  in 
which  he  had  so  long  wrapped  the  pictiu^,  he  had  fastened 
scarf -like  about  her  head,  so  she  was  not  cold.  But  she 
looked  pathetically  childlike  and  out  of  place,  standing 
here  beside  him  at  the  very  top  of  the  world,  with  the 
valley  so  far  down  that  the  clumps  of  timber  in  it  were 
like  painted  splashes.  It  was  a  half  mile  down  to  the 
first  bit  of  timber — a  small  round  patch  of  it  in  a  narrow 
dip — and  he  pointed  to  it  encouragingly. 

"We'll  camp  there  and  have  supper.  I  beheve  it  is 
far  enough  down  for  a  fire.  And  if  it  is  impossible  for  you 
to  ride  Tara — Fm  going  to  carry  you!" 

"You  can't,  Sdkewawin"  she  sighed,  letting  her  head 
touch  his  arm  for  a  moment.  "It  is  more  difficult  to 
carry  a  load  down  a  mountain  than  up.    I  can  walk." 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     217 

Before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  begun  to  descend.! 
They  went  down  quickly — ^three  times  as  quickly  as  they 
had  climbed  the  other  side — ^and  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
they  reached  the  timber  in  the  dip,  he  felt  as  if  his  back  were 
broken.  The  girl  had  persistently  kept  ahead  of  him,  and 
with  a  little  cry  of  triumph  she  dropped  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  first  balsam  they  came  to.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes  were 
big  and  dark  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  quivering  with  the 
strain  of  the  last  great  effort,  and  yet  she  tried  to  smile  at 
him. 

"You  may  carry  me — some  time — ^but  not  down  a 
mountain,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  head  wearily  on  the 
pillow  of  her  arm,  so  that  her  face  was  concealed  from  him. 
**And  now — ^please  get  supper,  Sakewaicin." 

He  spread  his  blanket  over  her  before  he  began  searching 
for  a  camp  site.  He  noticed  that  Tara  was  already  hunt- 
ing for  roots.  Baree  followed  close  at  his  master's  heels. 
Quite  near,  David  found  a  streamlet  that  trickled  down 
from  the  snow  line,  and  to  a  grassy  plot  on  the  edge  of  this 
he  dragged  a  quantity  of  dry  wood  and  built  a  fire.  Then 
he  made  a  thick  couch  of  balsam  boughs  and  went  to  his 
little  companion.  In  the  half  hour  he  had  been  at  work 
she  had  fallen  asleep.  Utter  exhaustion  was  in  the  limp- 
ness of  her  slender  body  as  he  raised  her  gently  in  his  arms. 
The  handkerchief  had  slipped  back  over  her  shoulder  and 
she  was  wonderfully  sweet,  and  helpless,  as  she  lay  with 
her  head  on  his  breast.  She  was  still  asleep  when  he 
placed  her  on  the  balsams,  and  it  was  dark  when  he 
awakened  her  for  supper.  The  fire  was  burning 
brightly.  Tara  had  stretched  himself  out  in  a  huge, 
dark  bulk  in  the  outer  glow  of  it.    Baree  was  close  to 


218     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  OT>OONE 

the  fire.  The  girl  sat  up,  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  stared  at 
David. 

*'  Sakewavdn,'*  she  whispered  then,  looking  about  her  in  a 
moment's  bewilderment. 

"Supper,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  did  it  all  while  you 
were  napping,  Httle  lady.     Are  you  hungry?" 

He  had  spread  their  meal  so  that  she  did  not  have  to 
move  from  her  balsams,  and  he  had  brought  a  short  piece 
of  timber  to  place  as  a  rest  at  her  back,  cushioned  by  his 
shoulder  pack  and  the  blanket.  After  all  his  trouble  she 
did  not  eat  much.  The  mistiness  was  still  in  her  eyes, 
so  after  he  had  finished  he  took  away  the  timber  and  made 
of  the  balsams  a  deep  pillow  for  her,  that  she  might  lie 
restfully,  with  her  head  well  up,  while  he  smoked.  He  did 
not  want  her  to  go  to  sleep.  He  wanted  to  talk.  And  he 
began  by  asking  how  she  had  so  carelessly  run  away  with 
only  a  pair  of  moccasins  on  her  feet  and  no  clothes  but  the 
thin  garments  she  was  wearing. 

"They  were  in  Tara's  pack,  Sahewawirty*  she  explained, 
her  eyes  glowing  like  sleepy  pools  in  the  fireglow.  "They 
were  lost." 

He  began  then  to  tell  her  about  Father  Roland.  She 
listened,  growing  sleepier,  her  lashes  drooping  slowly 
imtil  they  formed  dark  curves  on  her  cheeks.  He  was 
close  enough  to  marvel  at  their  length,  and  as  he  watched 
them,  quivering  in  her  efforts  to  keep  awake  and  Usten  to 
him,  they  seemed  to  him  like  the  dark  petals  of  two  beauti- 
ful flowers  closing  slumbrously  for  the  night.  It  was  a 
wonderful  thing  to  see  them  open  suddenly  and  find  the  full 
glory  of  the  sleep-filled  eyes  on  him  for  an  instant,  and 
then  to  watch  them  slowly  close  again  as  she  fought  val- 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     219 

iantly  to  conqiter  her  irresistible  drowsiness,  the  merest 
dimpUng  of  a  smile  on  her  lips.  The  last  time  she  opened 
them  he  had  her  picture  in  his  hands,  and  was  looking  at  it, 
quite  close  to  her,  with  the  fire  lighting  it  up.  For  a 
moment  he  thought  the  sight  if  it  had  awakened  h^  com- 
pletely. 

"Throw  it  into  the  fire,'*  she  said.  "Brokaw  made  me 
let  him  take  it,  and  I  hate  it.  I  hate  Brokaw.  I  hate  the 
picture.     Bum  it." 

"But  I  must  keep  it,"  he  protested.  "Burn  it!  Why 
it's     .     .     ." 

"You  won't  want  it — after  to-night." 

Her  eyes  were  closing  again,  heavily,  for  the  last  time. 

"Why.?"  he  asked,  bending  over  her. 

"Because,  Sakewawin  .  .  .  you  have  me  .  .  . 
now,"  came  her  voice,  in  drowsy  softness;  and  then  the 
long  lashes  lay  quietly  against  her  cheeks.  u 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  THOUGHT  of  her  words  a  long  time  after  ehe 
had  fallen  asleep.  Even  in  that  last  moment  of  her 
consciousness  he  had  found  her  voice  filled  with  a 
strange  faith  and  a  wonderful  assurance  as  it  had  drifted 
away  in  a  whisper.  He  would  not  want  the  pictxu^  any 
more — ^because  he  had  her  I  That  was  what  she  had  said, 
and  he  knew  it  was  her  soul  that  had  spoken  to  him  as  she 
had  hovered  that  instant  between  consciousness  and  slum- 
ber. He  looked  at  her,  sleeping  under  his  eyes,  and  he  felt 
upon  him  for  the  first  time  the  weight  of  a  sudden  trouble, 
a  gloomy  foreboding — ^and  yet,  under  it  all,  like  a  fire 
banked  beneath  dead  ash,  was  the  warm  thrill  of  his  pos- 
session. He  had  spread  his  blanket  over  her,  and  now  he 
leaned  over  and  drew  back  her  thick  curls.  They  were 
warm  and  soft  in  his  fingers,  strangely  sweet  to  touch, 
and  for  a  moment  or  two  he  fondled  them  while  he  gazed 
steadily  into  the  childish  loveliness  of  her  face,  dimpled 
still  by  that  shadow  of  a  smile  with  which  she  had  fallen 
asleep.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  had  accepted  for 
himself  a  tremendous  task,  and  that  she,  not  much  more 
than  a  child,  had  of  coiu-se  scarcely  foreseen  its  possibilities. 
Her  faith  in  him  was  a  pleasurable  thing.  It  was  abso- 
lute. He  realized  it  more  as  the  hours  dragged  on  and  he 
sat  alone  by  the  fire.  So  great  was  it  that  she  was  going 
back  fearlessly  to  those  whom  she  hated  and  feared.    She 

220 


I 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MABGE  O'DOONE     221 

was  returning  not  only  fearlessly  but  with  a  certain  defiant 
satisfaction.  He  could  fancy  her  saying  to  Hauck,  and 
the  Red  Brute:  "IVe  come  back.  Now  touch  me  if  you 
dare ! "  What  would  he  have  to  do  to  Uve  up  to  that  surety 
of  her  confidence  in  him?  A  great  deal,  undoubtedly. 
And  if  he  won  for  her,  as  she  fully  expected  him  to  win, 
what  would  he  do  with  her?  Take  her  to  the  coast — ^put 
her  into  a  school  somewhere  down  south?  That  was  his 
first  notion.  For  to  him  she  looked  more  than  ever  like 
a  child  as  she  lay  asleep  on  her  bed  of  balsams. 

He  tried  to  picture  Brokaw.  He  tried  to  see  Hauck  m 
his  mental  vision,  and  he  thought  over  again  all  that  the 
girl  had  told  him  about  herself  and  these  men.  As  he 
looked  at  her  now — a  Uttle,  softly  breathing  thing  under  his 
gray  blanket — it  was  hard  for  him  to  believe  anything  so 
horrible  as  she  had  suggested.  Perhaps  her  fears  had  been 
gi*ossly  exaggerated.  The  exchange  of  gold  between 
Hauck  and  the  Red  Brute  had  probably  been  for  some- 
thing else.  Even  men  engulfed  in  the  brutaUty  of  the  trade 
they  were  in  would  not  think  of  such  an  appaUing 
crime.  And  then — ^with  a  fierceness  that  made  his  blood 
boil — came  the  thought  of  that  time  when  Brokaw  had 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  had  held  her  head  hack  until 
it  hurt — and  had  kissed  her !  Baree  had  crept  between  his 
knees,  and  David's  fingers  closed  so  tightly  in  the  loose 
skin  of  his  neck  that  the  dog  whined.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
and  stood  gazing  down  at  the  girl.  He  stood  there  for  a 
long  time  without  moving  or  making  a  sound. 

"A  Uttle  woman,"  he  whispered  to  himself  at  last. 
"Not  a  child." 

From  that  moment  his  blood  was  hot  with  a  desire  to 


%%%    THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE 

feach  the  Nest,  ile  Aad  never  thought  seriously  of 
physical  struggle  with  men  except  in  the  way  of  sport. 
His  disposition  had  always  been  to  regard  such  a  thing  as 
barbarous,  and  he  had  never  taken  advantage  of  his  skill 
with  the  gloves  as  the  average  man  might  very  probably 
have  done.  To  fight  was  to  lower  one's  seK-respect  enor- 
mously, he  thought.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  timidity,  but 
of  very  strong  conviction — an  entrenchment  that  had  saved 
him  from  wreaking  vengeance — in  the  hour  when  another 
man  would  have  killed.  But  there,  in  that  room  in  his 
home,  he  had  stood  face  to  face  with  a  black,  revolting  sin. 
There  had  been  nothing  left  to  shield,  nothing  to  protect. 
Here  it  was  different.  A  soul  had  given  itself  into  his  pro- 
tection, a  soul  as  pure  as  the  stars  shining  over  the  moun- 
tain tops,  and  its  little  keeper  lay  there  under  his  eyes 
sleeping  in  the  sweet  faith  that  it  was  safe  with  him.  A 
little  later  his  fingers  tingled  with  an  odd  thrill  as  he  took 
his  automatic  out  of  his  pack,  loaded  it  carefully,  and 
placed  it  in  his  pocket  where  it  could  be  easily  reached. 
The  act  was  a  declaration  of  something  ultimately  definite. 
He  stretched  himself  out  near  the  fire  and  went  to  sleep 
with  the  force  of  this  declaration  brewing  strangely  within 
him. 

He  was  awake  with  the  summer  dawn  and  the  sun  was 
beginning  to  tint  up  the  big  red  mountain  when  they  began 
the  descent  into  the  valley.  Before  they  started  he  loaned 
the  girl  his  comb  and  single  military  brush,  and  for  fifteen 
minutes  sat  watching  her  while  she  brushed  the  tangles 
out  of  her  hair  until  it  fell  about  her  in  a  thick,  waving 
splendour.  At  the  nape  of  her  neck  she  tied  it  with  a  bit 
of  string  which  he  found  for  her,  and  after  that,  as  they 


THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE     22S 

travelled  downward,  he  observed  how  the  rebellious 
tresses,  shimmering  and  dancing  about  her,  persisted  in 
forming  themselves  into  curls  again.  In  an  hour  they 
reached  the  valley,  and  for  a  few  moments  they  sat  down 
to  rest,  while  Tara  foraged  among  the  rocks  for  marmots. 
It  was  a  wonderful  valley  into  which  they  had  come. 
From  where  they  sat,  it  was  like  an  immense  park.  Green 
slopes  reached  almost  to  the  summits  of  the  mountains, 
and  to  a  point  half  way  up  these  slopes — the  last  timber 
line— clumps  of  spruce  and  balsam  trees  were  scattered 
over  the  green  as  if  set  there  by  hands  of  men.  Some  of 
thi^se  timber  patches  were  no  larger  than  the  decorative 
clymps  in  a  city  park,  and  others  covered  acres  and  tens  of 
aaes;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  slopes  on  either  side,  like 
decorative  fringes,  were  thin  and  unbroken  lines  of  forest. 
Bo: ween  these  two  hues  of  forest  lay  the  open  valley  of 
soft  and  undulating  meadow,  dotted  with  its  purplish 
boi.ks  of  buffalo-,  willow-,  and  mountain-sage,  its  green 
coj^pices  of  wild  rose  and  thorn,  and  its  clumps  of  trees. 
In  the  hollow  of  the  valley  ran  a  stream. 

And  this  was  her  home!  She  was  telling  him  about  it 
as  they  sat  there,  and  he  listened  to  her,  and  watched  her 
bu  d-like  movements,  without  breaking  in  to  ask  questions 
which  the  night  had  shaped  in  his  mind.  She  pointed  out 
gray  summits  on  which  she  had  stood.  Off  there,  just 
visible  in  the  gray  mist  of  early  sunshine,  was  the  mountain 
where  she  had  found  Tara  five  years  ago — a  tiny  cub  who 
must  have  lost  his  mother.  Perhaps  the  Indians  had 
killed  her.  And  that  long,  rock-strewn  slide,  so  steep  in 
pla<^5s  that  he  shuddered  when  he  thought  of  what  she  had 
dooij,  was  where  she  and  Tara  had  climbed  over  the  range 


224    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE , 

in  their  flight.  She  chose  the  rocks  so  that  Tara  would 
leave  no  trail.  He  regarded  that  slide  as  conclusive  evi- 
dence of  the  very  definite  resolution  that  must  have  inspired 
her.  A  fit  of  girlish  temper  would  not  have  taken  her  up 
that  rock  slide,  and  in  the  night.  He  thought  it  time  to 
speak  of  what  was  weighing  upon  his  mind. 

"Listen  to  me.  Marge,"  he  said,  pointing  toward  the  red 
mountain  ahead  of  them.  "Off  there,  you  say,  is  the 
Nest.    What  are  we  gouig  to  do  when  we  arrive  there?" 

The  little  lines  gathered  between  her  eyes  again  as  she 
looked  at  him. 

"Why— tell  them,"  she  said. 

"Tell  them  what?" 

"That  you've  come  for  me,  and  that  we're  going  away, 
SahetoatoinJ* 

"And  if  they  object?  If  Brokaw  and  Hauck  say  you 
cannot  go?" 

"We'll  go  anyway,  Sakewawin,^* 

"That's  a  pretty  name  you've  given  me,"  he  mused, 
thinking  of  something  else.     "I  like  it." 

For  the  first  time  she  blushed — ^blushed  until  her  face 
was  like  one  of  the  wild  roses  in  those  prickly  copses  oi  the 
valley. 

And  then  he  added: 

"You  must  not  tell  them  tdo  much — at  first.  Marge. 
Remember  that  you  were  lost,  and  I  found  you.  You 
must  give  me  time  to  get  acquainted  with  Hauck  and 
Brokaw." 

She  nodded,  but  there  was  a  moment's  anxiety  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  saw  for  an  instant  the  slightest  quiver  in  her 
throat. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE^.  225 

**You  won't — let  them — keep  me?  No  matter  what 
they  say — ^you  won't  let  them  keep  me?" 

He  jimiped  up  with  a  laugh  and  tilted  her  chin  so  that 
he  looTced  straight  into  her  eyes;  and  her  faith  filled  them 
again  in  a  flood. 

"No — ^you're  going  with  me,**  he  promised.  "Come, 
I'm  quite  anxious  to  meet  Hauck  and  the  Red  Brute!" 

It  seemed  singular  to  David  that  they  met  no  one  in  the 
valley  that  day,  and  the  girl's  explanation  that  practically 
all  travel  came  from  the  north  and  west,  and  stopped  at  the 
Nest,  did  not  fully  satisfy  him.  He  still  wondered  why  they 
did  not  encounter  one  of  the  searching  parties  that  must 
have  been  sent  out  for  her — until  she  told  him  that,  since 
Nisikoos  died,  she  and  Tara  had  gone  quite  frequently  into 
the  mountains  and  remained  all  night,  so  that  perhaps  no 
search  had  been  made  for  her  after  all.  Hauck  had  not 
seemed  to  care.  More  frequently  than  otherwise  he  had 
not  missed  her.  Twice  she  had  been  away  for  two  nights 
and  two  days.  It  was  only  because  Brokaw  had  given  that 
gold  to  Hauck  that  she  had  feared  pursuit.  If  Hauck 
had  bought  her    .     .    . 

She  spoke  of  that  possible  sale  as  if  she  might  have  been 
the  merest  sort  of  chattel.  And  then  she  startled  him  by 
saying: 

"I  have  known  of  those  white  men  from  the  north  buy- 
ing Indian  girls.  I  have  seen  them  sold  for  whisky. 
Ugh  I "  She  shuddered.  "  Nisikoos  and  I  overheard  them 
one  night.  Hauck  was  seUing  a  girl  for  a  little  sack  of 
gold — ^like  that.  Nisikoos  held  me  more  tightly  than  ever, 
that  night.  I  don't  know  why.  She  was  terribly  afraid 
of  that  man — ^Hauck.    Why  did  she  live  with  him  if  she 


£26     THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE 

was  afraid  of  him?    Do  you  know?     I  wouldn't.     I'd  run 
away." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you,  my  child." 

Her  eyes  turned  on  him  suddenly. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that— a  child?" 

"Because  you're  not  a  woman;  because  you're  so  very, 
very  young,  and  I'm  so  very  old,"  he  laughed. 

For  a  long  time  after  that  she  was  silent  as  they  travelled 
steadily  toward  the  red  mountain. 

They  ate  their  dinner  in  the  sombre  shadow  of  it.  Most 
of  the  afternoon  Marge  rode  her  bear.  It  was  sundoToa 
when  they  stopped  for  their  last  meal.  The  Nest  was  stiU 
three  miles  farther  on,  and  the  starsVere  shining  brilliantly 
before  they  came  to  the  little,  wooded  plain  in  the  edge  of 
which  Hauck  had  hidden  away  his.  place  of  trade.  Wh<m 
they  were  some  hmidred  yards  away  they  came  over  a 
knoll  and  David  saw  the  glow  of  fires.  The  girl  stopped 
suddenly  and  her  hand  caught  his  arm.  He  counted  four 
of  those  fires  in  the  open.  A  fifth  glowed  faintly,  as  if 
back  in  timber.  Soimds  came  to  them — the  slow,  hollow 
booming  of  a  tom-tom,  and  voices.  They  could  see  shad-' 
ows  moving.     The  girl's  fingers  were  pinching  David's  arm. 

"The  Indians  have  come  in,"  she  whispered. 

There  was  a  thrill  of  uneasiness  in  her  words.  It  was 
not  fear.  He  could  see  that  she  was  puzzled,  and  that  she 
had  not  expected  to  find  fires  or  those  moving  shadows. 
Her  eyes  were  steady  and  shining  as  she  looked  at  him. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  grown  taller,  and  more  like 
a  woman,  as  they  stood  there.  Something  in  her  face 
made  him  ask: 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     227 

"Why  have  they  come?" 

"I  don*t  know,"  she  said. 

She  started  down  the  knoll  straight  for  the  fires.  Tara 
and  Baree  filed  behind  them.  Beyond  the  glow  of  the 
camp  a  dark  bulk  took  shape  against  the  blackness  of  the 
forest.  David  guessed  that  it  was  the  Nest.  He  made 
out  a  deep,  low  building,  unhghted  so  far  as  he  could  see. 
Then  they  entered  into  the  fireglow.  Their  appearance 
produced  a  strange  and  instant  quiet.  The  beating  of  the 
tom-tom  ceased.  Voices  died.  Dark  faces  stared — and 
that  was  all.  There  were  about  fifty  of  them  about  the 
fires,  David  figiu^.  And  not  a  white  man's  face  among 
them.  They  were  all  Indians.  A  lean,  night-eyed, 
sinister-looking  lot.  He  was  conscious  that  they  were 
scrutinizing  him  more  than  they  were  the  girl.  He  could 
almost  feel  the  prick  of  their  eyes.  With  her  head  up,  his 
companion  walked  between  the  fires  and  beyond  them, 
looking  neither  to  one  side  nor  the  other.  They  turned  the 
end  of  the  huge  log  building  and  on  this  side  it  was  glowing 
dimly  with  light,  and  David  faintly  heard  voices.  The 
girl  passed  swiftly  into  a  hollow  of  gloom,  calHng  softly  to 
Tara.  The  bear  followed  her,  a  grotesque,  slowly  moving 
hulk,  and  David  waited.  He  heard  the  clink  of  a  chain. 
A  moment  later  she  returned  to  him. 

"There  is  a  light  in  Hauck's  room,"  she  said.  "His 
council  room,  he  calls  it — where  he  makes  bargains.  I 
hope  they  are  both  there,  Sahewawin — ^both  Hauck  and 
Brokaw."  She  seized  his  hand,  and  held  it  tightly  as  she 
led  him  deeper  into  darkness.  "I  wonder  why  so  many 
of  the  Indians  are  in?  I  did  not  know  they  were  coming. 
It  is  the  wrong  time  of  year  for — ^a  crowd  like  that!" 


228     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONEj 

He  felt  the  quiver  in  her  voice.  She  was  quite  excited, 
he  knew.  And  yet  not  about  the  Indians,  nor  the  strange- 
ness of  their  presence.  It  was  her  triumph  that  made  her 
tremble  in  the  darkness,  a  wonderful  anticipation  of  the 
greatest  event  that  had  ever  happened  in  her  life.  She 
hoped  that  Hauck  and  Brokaw  were  in  that  room!  She 
would  confront  them  there,  with  him.  That  was  it.  She 
felt  her  bondage — ^her  prisonment — ^in  this  savage  place 
was  ended;  and  she  was  eager  to  find  them,  and  let  them 
know  that  she  was  no  longer  afraid,  or  alone — ^no  longer 
need  obey  or  fear  them.  He  felt  the  thrill  of  it  in  the  hot, 
fierce  Httle  clasp  of  her  hand.  He  saw  it  glowing  in  her 
eyes  when  they  passed  through  the  Ught  of  a  wiudow. 
Then  they  turned  again,  at  the  back  of  the  building. 
They  paused  at  a  door.  Not  a  ray  of  light  broke  the 
gloom  here.  The  stars  seemed  to  make  the  blackness 
deeper.    Her  fingers  tightened. 

"  You  must  be  careful,"  he  said.    **  And — remember.'*' 

"I  wiU,"  she  whispered. 

It  was  his  last  warning.  The  door  opened  slowly,  with 
a  creaking  sound,  and  they  entered  into  a  long,  gloomy 
hall,  illumined  by  a  single  oil  lamp  that  sputtered  and 
smoked  in  its  bracket  on  one  of  the  walls.  The  hall  gave 
him  an  idea  of  the  immensity  of  the  buildiug.  From  the 
far  end  of  it,  through  a  partly  open  door,  came  a  reek  of 
tobacco  smoke,  and  loud  voices — a  burst  of  coarse  laughter, 
a  sudden  volley  of  curses  that  died  away  in  a  still  louder 
roar  of  merriment.  Some  one  closed  the  door  from  within. 
The  girl  was  staring  toward  the  end  of  the  hall,  and 
shuddering. 

"That  is  the  way  it  has  been — growing  worse  and  worse 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     229 

since  Nisikoos  died,"  she  said.  "In  there  the  white  men 
who  come  down  from  the  north,  drink,  and  gamble,  and 
quarrel.  They  are  always  quarrelling.  This  room  is  ours 
— Nisikoos'  and  mine."  She  touched  with  her  hand  a 
door  near  which  they  were  standing.  Then  she  pointed 
to  another.  There  were  half  a  dozen  doors  up  and  down 
the  hall.     "And  that  is  Hauck's." 

He  threw  off  his  pack,  placed  it  on  the  floor,  with  his 
rifle  across  it.  When  he  straightened,  the  girl  was  listening 
at  the  door  of  Hauck's  room.  Beckoning  to  him  she 
knocked  on  it  lightly,  and  then  opened  it.  David  entered 
close  behind  her.  It  was  a  rather  large  room — ^his  one 
impression  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  In  the  centre  of  it 
was  a  table,  and  over  the  table  hung  an  oil  lamp  with  a 
tin  reflector.  In  the  light  of  this  lamp  sat  two  men.  In 
his  first  glance  he  made  up  his  mind  which  was  Hauck 
and  which  was  Brokaw.  It  was  Brokaw,  he  thought,  who 
was  facing  them  as  they  entered — a  man  he  could  hate  even 
if  he  had  never  heard  of  him  before.  Big.  Loose-shoul- 
dered. A  carnivorous-looking  giant  with  a  mottled,  red- 
dish face  and  bleary  eyes  that  had  an  amazed  and  watery 
stare  in  them.  Apparently  the  girl's  knock  had  not  been 
heard,  for  it  was  a  moment  before  the  other  man  swung 
slowly  about  in  his  chair  so  that  he  could  see  them.  That 
was  Hauck.  David  knew  it.  He  was  almost  a  half 
smaller  than  the  other,  with  round,  bullish  shoulders,  a 
thick  neck,  and  eyes  wherein  might  lurk  an  incredible 
cruelty.  He  popped  half  out  of  his  seat  when  he  saw  the 
girl,  and  a  stranger.  His  jaws  seemed  to  tighten  with  a 
snap.  A  snap  that  could  almost  be  heard.  But  it  was 
Brokaw's  face  that  held  David's  eyes.     He  was  two  thirds 


230     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

drunk.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  if  he  was  any  sort  of 
Judge  of  that  kind  of  imbecility.  One  of  his  thick,  huge 
hands  was  gripping  a  bottle.  Hauck  had  evidently  been 
reading  him  something  out  of  a  ledger,  a  Post  ledger,  which 
he  held  now  in  one  hand.  David  was  surprised  at  the 
quiet  and  unemotional  way  in  which  the  girl  began  speak- 
ing. She  said  that  she  had  wandered  over  into  the  other 
vaUey  and  was  lost  when  this  stranger  found  her.  He  had 
been  good  to  her,  and  was  on  his  way  to  the  settlement 
on  the  coast.    His  name  was     ...  * 

She  got  no  further  than  that.  Brokaw  had  taken  his 
devouring  gaze  from  her  and  was  staring  at  David.  He 
lurched  suddenly  to  his  feet  and  leaned  over  the  table,  a 
new  sort  of  surprise  in  his  heavy  coimtenance.  He 
stretched  out  a  hand.    His  voice  was  a  bellow. 

"McKenna!" 

He  was  speaking  directly  at  David — calling  him  by 
name.  There  was  as  little  doubt  of  that  as  of  his  drunken- 
ness. There  was  also  an  unmistakable  note  of  fellowship 
in  his  voice.  McKenna!  David  opened  his  mouth  to 
correct  him  when  a  second  thought  occurred  to  him  in  a 
mildly  inspirational  way.  Why  not  McKenna?  The 
girl  was  looking  at  him,  a  bit  surprised,  questioning  him  in 
the  directness  of  her  gaze.  He  nodded,  and  smiled  at 
Brokaw.  The  giant  came  around  the  table,  still  holding 
out  his  big,  red  hand. 

"Mac!  God!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  for- 
gotten   .    .    ." 

David  took  the  hand. 

"Brokaw!"  he  chanced. 

The  other's  hand  was  as  cold  as  a  piece  of  beef.    But  it 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     231 

possessed  a  crushing  strength.  Hauck  was  staring  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  suddenly  Brokaw  turned  to  him,  still 
pumping  David's  hand. 

"McKenna — that  young  devil  of  Kicking  Horse, 
Hauck!    YouVe   heard   me   speak   of   him.     McKenna 

The  girl  had  backed  to  the  door.  She  was  pale.  Her 
eyes  were  shining,  and  she  was  looking  straight  at  David 
when  Brokaw  released  his  hand. 

"Good-night,  Sdkewawin  1"  she  said. 

It  was  very  distinct,  that  word — Sakewavnn  I  David 
had  never  heard  it  come  quite  so  clearly  from  her  lips. 
There  was  something  of  defiance  and  pride  in  her  utter- 
ance of  it — and  intentional  and  decisive  emphasis  to  it. 
She  smiled  at  him  as  she  went  through  the  door, 
and  in  that  same  breath  Hauck  had  followed  her. 
They  disappeared.  When  David  turned  he  found  Brokaw 
backed  against  the  table,  his  hands  gripping  the  edge  of  it, 
his  face  distorted  by  passion.  It  was  a  terrible  face  to 
look  into — to  stand  before,  alone  in  that  room — a  face 
filled  with  menace  and  murder.  So  sudden  had  been  the 
change  in  it  that  David  was  stunned  for  a  moment.  In 
that  space  of  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  minute  neither  uttered 
a  sound.  Then  Brokaw  leaned  slowly  forward,  his  great 
hands  clenched,  and  demanded  in  a  hissing  voice: 

"What  did  she  mean  when  she  called  you  that — 
Sakewamin  ?    What  did  she  mean?** 

It  was  not  now  the  voice  of  a  drunken  man,  but  the 
voice  of  a  man  ready  to  kill. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

5AKEWAWINI  What  did  she  mean  when  she 
called  you  that?" 
It  was  Brokaw's  voice  again,  turning  the  words 
round  but  repeating  them.  He  made  a  step  toward  David, 
his  hands  clenched  more  tightly  and  his  whole  hulk  growing 
tense.  His  eyes,  blazing  as  if  through  a  very  thin  film  of 
water — ^water  that  seemed  to  cling  there  by  some  strange 
magic — ^were  horrible,  David  thought.  Sahewawin  I  A 
pretty  name  for  himself,  he  had  told  the  girl — and  here  it 
was  raising  the  very  devil  with  this  drink-bloated  colos- 
sus. He  guessed  quickly.  It  was  decidedly  a  matter  of 
guessing  quickly  and  of  making  prompt  and  satisfactory 
explanation — or,  a  throttling  where  he  stood.  His  mind 
worked  like  a  race-horse.  "Sakewawin"  meant  some- 
thing that  had  enraged  Brokaw.  A  jealous  rage.  A  rage 
that  had  filled  his  aqueous  eyes  with  a  lurid  glare.  So 
David  said,  looking  into  them  calmly,  and  with  a  little 
feigned  surprise: 

** Wasn't  she  speaking  to  you,  Brokaw?" 

It  was  a  splendid  shot.  David  scarcely  knew  why  he 
made  it,  except  that  he  was  moved  by  a  powerful  impulse 
which  just  now  he  had  not  time  to  analyze.  It  was  this 
same  impulse  that  had  kept  him  from  revealing  himself 
when  Brokaw  had  mistaken  him  for  someone  else.  Chance 
had  thrown  a  course  of  action  into  his  way  and  he  had  ac- 

£32 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     233 

cepted  it  almost  involuntarily.  It  had  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  that  he  would  give  much  to  be  alone  with  this  half- 
drunken  man  for  a  few  hours — ^as  McKenna.  He  might 
last  long  enough  in  that  disguise  to  discover  things.  But 
not  with  Hauck  watching  him,  for  Hauck  was  four  fifths 
sober,  and  there  was  a  depth  to  his  cruel  eyes  which  he  did 
not  like.  He  watched  the  effect  of  his  words  on  Brokaw. 
The  tenseness  left  his  body,  his  hands  unclenched  slowly, 
his  heavy  jaw  relaxed — and  David  laughed  softly.  He 
felt  that  he  was  out  of  deep  water  now.  This  fellow,  half 
fiUed  with  drink,  was  wonderfully  credulous.  And  he  was 
sure  that  his  watery  eyes  could  not  see  very  weU,  though 
his  ears  had  heard  distinctly. 

"She  was  looking  at  you,  Brokaw — straight  at  you — ; 
when  she  said  good-night,**  he  added. 

"You  siu-e — sure  she  said  it  to  me,  Mac?" 

David  nodded,  even  as  his  blood  ran  a  little  cold. 

A  leering  grin  of  joy  spread  over  Brokaw*s  face. 

"The— the  Httle  devil!"  he  said,  gloatingly. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  David  asked.  "Sakewaiein — 
I  had  never  heard  it.'*  He  lied  calmly,  turning  his  head  a 
bit  out  of  the  light. 

Brokaw  stared  at  him  a  moment  before  answering. 

"When  a  girl  says  that — ^it  means — she  belongs  to  you^* 
he  said.  "In  Indian  it  means — 'possession!  Dam'  .  •  . 
of  course  you're  right!  She  said  it  to  me.  She's  mine. 
She  belongs  to  me.     I  own  her.  '  And  I  thought    .     .     ." 

He  caught  up  the  bottle  and  turned  out  half  a  glass  of 
liquor,  swaying  unsteadily:  ^ 

"Drink,  Mac?'* 

David  shook  his  head. 


^34     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Not  now.  Let's  go  to  your  shack  if  you've  got  one* 
Lots  to  talk  about — old  times — Kicking  Horse,  you  know. 
And  this  girl?  I  can't  believe  it!  If  it's  true,  you're  a 
lucky  dog." 

He  was  not  thinking  of  consequences — of  to-morrow. 
To-night  was  all  he  asked  for — alone  with  Brokaw.  That 
mountain  of  flesh,  stupefied  with  Uquor,  was  no  match  for 
him  now.  To-morrow  he  miglit  hold  the  whip  hand,  if 
Hauck  did  not  return  too  soon. 

"Lucky  dog!  Lucky  dog!"  He  kept  repeating  that. 
It  was  hke  music  in  Brokaw's  ears.  And  such  a  girl!  An 
angel!  He  couldn't  believe  it!  Brokaw's  face  was  like  a 
red  fire  in  his  exultation,  his  lustful  joy,  his  great  triumph. 
He  drank  the  liquor  he  had  proffered  David,  and  drank  a 
second  time,  rumbling  in  his  thick  chest  like  some  kind  of 
animal.  Of  course  she  was  an  angel!  Hadn't  he,  and 
Hauck,  and  that  woman  who  had  died,  made  her  grow  into 
an  angel — ^just  for  him?  She  belonged  to  him.  Always 
had  belonged  to  him,  and  he  had  waited  a  long  time.  If 
she  had  ever  called  any  other  man  that  name — Sakewawin 
— ^he  would  have  killed  him.  Certain.  Killed  hrm  dead. 
This  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  him  that. 
Lucky  dog?  You  bet  he  was.  They'd  go  to  his  shack — 
and  talk.  He  drank  a  third  time.  He  rolled  heavily  as 
they  entered  the  hall,  David  praying  that  they  would  not 
meet  Hauck.  He  had  his  victim.  He  was  sure  of  him. 
And  the  hall  was  empty.  He  picked  up  his  gun  and  pack, 
and  held  to  Brokaw's  arm  as  they  went  out  into  the  night. 
Brokaw  staggered  guidingly  into  a  wall  of  darkness,  talking 
thickly  about  lucky  dogs.  They  had  gone  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred paces  when  he  stopped  suddenly,  very  close  to  some- 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     235 

thing  that  looked  to  David  Hke  a  section  of  tall  fence 
built  of  small  trees.  It  was  the  cage.  He  jumped  at  that 
conclusion  before  he  could  see  it  clearly  in  the  clouded 
starUght.  From  it  there  came  a  growling  rumble,  a  deep 
breath  that  was  like  air  escaping  from  a  pair  of  bellows,  and 
he  saw  faintly  a  huge,  motionless  shape  beyond  the 
stripped  and  upright  sapling  trunks. 

"Grizzly,"  said  Brokaw,  trying  to  keep  himself  on  an 
even  balance.  "Big  bear-fight  to-morrow,  Mac.  My 
bear — ^her  bear — a  great  fight!  Everybody  in  to  see  it. 
Nothing  like  a  bear-fight,  eh?  S'prise  her,  won't  it — 
pretty  little  wench !  When  she  sees  her  bear  fighting  mine? 
Betchu  hundred  dollars  my  bear  kills  Tara!" 

"To-morrow,"  said  David.  "I'll  bet  to-morrow. 
Where's  the  shack?" 

He  was  anxious  to  reach  that,  and  he  hoped  it  was  a 
good  distance  away.  He  feared  every  moment  that  he 
would  hear  Hauck's  voice  or  his  footsteps  behind  them,  and 
he  knew  that  Hauck's  presence  would  spoil  everything. 
Brokaw,  in  his  cups,  was  talkative — almost  garrulous. 
Aheady  he  had  explained  the  mystery  of  the  cage,  and  the 
Indians.  The  big  fight  was  to  take  place  in  the  cage,  and 
the  Indians  had  come  in  to  see  it.  He  found  himself 
wondering,  as  they  went  through  the  darkness,  how  it  had 
all  been  kept  from  the  girl,  and  why  Brokaw  should  dc- 
Kberately  lower  himseK  still  more  in  her  esteem  by  allowing 
the  combat  to  occur.  He  asked  him  about  it  when  they 
entered  the  shack  to  which  Brokaw  guided  him,  and  after 
they  had  lighted  a  lamp.  It  was  a  small,  gloomy,  whisky- 
smelling  place.  Brokaw  went  directly  to  a  box  nailed 
against  the  wall  and  returned  with  a  quart  flask  that  re- 


236     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

sembled  an  army  caHteen,  and  two  tin  cups.  He  sat 
down  at  a  small  table,  his  bloated,  red  face  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp,  that  queer  animal-like  rumbling  in  his  throat,  as 
he  turned  out  the  Hquor.  David  had  heard  porcupines 
make  something  Uke  the  same  sound.  He  pulled  his  hat 
lower  over  his  eyes  to  hide  the  gleam  of  them  as  Brokaw 
told  him  what  he  and  Hauck  had  planned.  The  bear  in 
the  cage  belonged  to  him — ^Brokaw.  A  big  brute.  Fierce. 
A  fighter.  Hauck  and  he  were  going  to  bet  on  his  bear 
because  it  would  surely  kill  Tara.  Make  a  big  clean-up, 
they  would.  Tara  was  soft.  Too  easy  Hving.  And  they 
needed  money  because  those  scoundrels  over  on  the  coast 
had  failed  to  get  in  enough  whisky  for  their  trade.  The 
girl  had  almost  spoiled  their  plans  by  going  away  with 
Tara.  And  he — ^Mac — was  a  devil  of  a  good  fellow  for 
bringing  her  back!  They'd  puU  off  the  fight  to-morrow. 
If  the  girl — ^that  Uttle  bird^devil  that  belonged  to  him— 
didn't  Uke  it    .     .     . 

He  brought  the  canteen  down  with  a  bang,  and  shoved 
one  of  the  cups  across  to  David. 

"Of  course,  she  belongs  to  you,"  said  David,  encourag- 
ingly* "but — confound  you — ^I  can't  beUeve  it,  you  old 
dog!  I  can't  believe  it!"  He  leaned  over  and  gave 
Brokaw  a  jocular  slap,  forcing  a  laugh  out  of  himself. 
"She's  too  pretty  for  you.  Prettiest  kid  I  ever  saw! 
How  did  it  happen?    Eh?    You — lucJcy — dog ! " 

He  was  fairly  trembling  as  he  saw  the  red  fire  of  satisfac- 
tion, of  gloating  pleasure,  deepen  in  Brokaw's  face.  ' 

"She  hasn't  belonged  to  you  very  long,  eh? " 

"Long  time,  long  time,"  replied  Brokaw,  pausing  with 
his  cup  half  way  to  his  mouth.     "  Years  aga" 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     237 

Suddenly  he  lowered  the  cup  so  forcefully  that  half 
the  liquor  in  it  was  spilled  over  the  table.  He  thrust  his 
huge  shoulders  and  red  face  toward  David,  and  in  an 
instant  there  was  a  snarl  on  his  thick  lips. 

"Hauck  said  she  didn't,"  he  growled.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that,  Mac? — said  she  didn't  belong  to  me  any 
more,  an'  I'd  have  to  pay  for  her  keep!  Gawd,  I  did.  I 
gave  him  a  lot  of  gold!" 

"You  were  a  fool,"  said  David,  trying  to  choke  back  his 
eagerness.     "A  fool ! " 

"I  should  have  killed  him,  shouldn't  I,  Mac — Skilled 
him  an'  took  her?  "  cried  Brokaw  huskily,  his  passion  rising 
as  he  knotted  his  huge  fists  on  the  table.  "Killed  him 
like  you  killed  the  Breed  for  that  long-haired  she-devU 
over  at  Copper  CHff!" 

"I — don't — ^know,"  said  David,  slowly,  praying  that 
he  might  not  say  the  wrong  thing  now.  "I  don't  know 
what  claim  you  had  on  her,  Brokaw.     K  I  knew    .     .     ." 

He  waited.  Brokaw  did  not  seem  altogether  like  a 
drunken  man  now,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  that  dis- 
covery had  come.  He  leaned  over  the  table.  The  watery 
film  seemed  to  drop  from  his  eyes  for  an  instant  and  his 
teeth  gleamed  wolfishly.  David  was  glad  the  lamp  chim- 
ney was  black  with  soot,  and  that  the  rim  of  his  hat  sha- 
dowed his  face,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  Brokaw's  vision 
had  grown  suddenly  better. 

"I  should  have  killed  him,  an'  took*  her,*'  repeated 
Brokaw,  his  voice  heavy  with  passion.  "I  should  have 
had  her  long  ago,  but  Hauck's  woman  kept  her  from  me. 
She's  been  mine  all  along,  ever  since  .  ^  --  •'I,  His  mind 
seemed  to  lag.    He  drew  his  hulking  shoulders  back 


238     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE 

slowly.  "But  I'll  have  her  tomorrow,"  he  mumbled, 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  forgotten  David  and  was  talking  to 
himself.  "To-morrow.  Next  day  we'll  start  north. 
Hauck  can't  say  anything  now.  I've  paid  him.  She's 
mine — mine  now — to-night!     By     .     .     ." 

David  shuddered  at  what  he  saw  in  the  brute's  revolting 
face.  It  was  the  dawning  of  a  sudden,  terrible  idea.  To- 
night! It  blazed  there  in  his  eyes,  grown  watery  again. 
Quickly  David  turned  out  more  liquor,  and  thrust  one  of 
the  cups  into  Brokaw's  hand.  The  giant  drank.  His 
body  sank  into  piggish  laxness.  For  a  moment  the  danger 
was  past.  David  knew  that  time  was  precious.  He  must 
force  his  hand. 

"And  if  Hauck  troubles  you,"  he  cried,  striking  the 
table  a  blow  with  his  fist,  "I'll  help  you  settle  for  him, 
Brokaw!  I'll  do  it  for  old  time's  sake.  I'll  do  to  him 
what  I  did  to  the  Breed.  The  girl's  yours.  She's  be- 
longed to  you  for  a  long  time,  eh?  Tell  me  about  it, 
Brokaw — tell  me  before  Hauck  comes ! " 

Could  he  never  make  that  bloated  fiend  tell  him  what 
he  wanted  to  know.''  Brokaw  stared  at  him  stupidly, 
and  then  all  at  once  he  started,  as  if  some  one  had  pricked 
him  into  consciousness,  and  a  slow  grin  began  to  spread 
over  his  face.  It  was  a  reminiscent,  horrible  sort  of  leer, 
not  a  smile — the  expression  of  a  man  who  gloats  over  a 
revolting  and  unspeakable  thing. 

"She's  mine — been  mine  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,"  he 
confided,  leaning  again  over  the  table.  "Good  friend, 
give  her  to  me,  Mac — good  friend  but  a  dam'  fool,"  he 
chuckled.  He  rubbed  his  huge  hands  together  and  turned 
out   more   liquor.     "Dam'   fool!"   he   repeated.     "Any 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     289 

man's  a  dam*  fool  to  turn  down  a  pretty  woman,  eh,  Mac? 
An'  she  was  pretty,  he  says.  My  girl's  mother,  you  know. 
She  must  have  been  pretty.  It  was  off  there — ^in  the  bush 
country — years  ago.  The  kid  you  brought  in  to-day  was  a 
baby  then — alone  with  her  mother.  Ho,  ho!  deuced  easy 
' — deuced  easy!    But  he  was  a  dam'  fool!" 

He  drank  with  incredible  slowness,  it  seemed  to  David. 
It  was  torture  to  watch  him,  with  the  fear,  every  instant, 
that  Hauck  would  come. 

"What  happened.''"  he  urged. 

"Bucky — my  friend — ^in  love  with  that  woman,  O'- 
Doone's  wife,"  resumed  Brokaw.  "Dead  crazy,  Mac. 
Crazier'n  you  were  over  the  Breed's  woman,  only  he 
didn't  have  the  nerve.  Just  moped  around — ^waiting — 
keeping  out  of  O'Doone's  way.  Trapper,  O'Doone  was — 
or  a  Company  runner.  Forgot  which.  Anyway  he  went 
on  a  long  trip,  in  winter,  and  got  laid  up  with  a  broken  leg 
long  way  from  home.  Wife  and  baby  alone,  an'  Bucky 
sneaked  up  one  day  and  found  the  woman  sick  with  fever. 
Out  of  her  head!  Dead  out,  Bucky  says — an'  my  G«,wd! 
If  she  didn't  think  he  was  her  husband  come  back!  That 
easy,  Mac — an'  he  lacked  the  nerve!  Crazy  in  love  with 
her,  he  was,  an'  didn't  dare  play  the  part.  Told  me  it  was 
conscience.  Bah!  it  wasn't.  He  was  afraid.  Scared- 
A  fool.  Then  he  said  the  fever  must  have  touched  him. 
Ho,  ho!  it  was  funny.  He  was  a  scared  fool.  Wish  Fd 
been  there,  Mac;  wish  I  had!" 

His  eyes  half  closed,  gleaming  in  narrow,  shining  slits. 
His  chin  dropped  on  his  chest.     David  prodded  him  on. 

"Bucky  got  her  to  run  away  with  him,"  continued 
Brokaw.     "Her  and  the  kid,  while  she  was  still  out  of  her 


340     THE  COURAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE  , 

Head.  Bucky  even  got  her  to  write  a  note,  he  said,  telling 
O'Doone  she  was  sick  of  him  an'  was  running  away  with 
another  man.  Bucky  didn't  give  his  own  name,  of  course. 
An'  the  woman  didn't  know  what  she  was  doing.  They 
started  west  with  the  kid,  and  all  the  time  Bucky  was 
afraid  I  He  dragged  the  woman  on  a  sledge,  and  snow 
covered  their  trail.  He  hid  in  a  cabin  a  hundred  miles  from 
O'Doone's,  an'  it  was  there  the  woman  come  to  her  senses. 
Gawd!  it  must  have  been  exciting!  Bucky  says  she  was 
like  a  mad  woman,  and  that  she  ran  screeching  out  into 
the  night,  leaving  the  kid  with  him.  He  followed  but 
he  couldn't  find  her.  He  waited,  but  she  never  came  back. 
A  snow  storm  covered  her  trail.  Then  Bucky  says  he 
went  mad — ^the  fool!  He  waited  till  spring,  keeping  that 
kid,  and  then  he  made  up  his  mind  to  get  it  back  to  Papa 
O'Doone  in  some  way.  He  sneaked  back  where  the  cabin 
had  been,  and  found  nothing  but  char  there.  It  had  been 
burned.  Oh,  the  devil,  but  it  was  funny!  And  after  all 
this  trouble  he  hadn't  dared  to  take  O'Doone's  place  with 
the  woman.  Conscience?  Bah!  He  was  a  fool.  You 
don't  get  a  pretty  woman  like  that  very  often,  eh,  Mac?" 
Unsteadily  he  tilted  the  flask  to  turn  himself  out  another 
drink.  His  voice  was  thickening.  David  rejoiced  when 
he  saw  that  the  flask  was  empty. 

"Dam'!"  said  Brokaw,  shaking  it. 

"Go  on,"  insisted  David.  "You  haven't  told  me  how 
you  came  by  the  girl,  Brokaw?" 

The  watery  film  was  growing  thicker  over  Brokaw's 
eyes.  He  brought  himself  back  to  his  story  with  an  ap- 
parent effort. 

"Came  west,  Bucky  did — ^with  the  kid,"  he  went  oiu 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DGONE     «41 

**  Struck  my  cabin,  on  the  Mackenzie,  a  year  later.  Told 
me  all  about  it.  Then  one  day  he  sneaked  away  and  left 
her  with  me,  begging  me  to  put  her  where  she'd  be  safe.  I 
did.  Gave  her  to  Hauck's  woman,  and  told  her  Bucky's 
story.  Later,  Hauck  came  over  here  and  built  this  place. 
Three  years  ago  I  come  down  from  the  Yukon,  and  saw  the 
kid.  Pretty?  Gawd,  she  was!  Almost  a  woman.  And 
she  was  mine.  I  told  'em  so.  Mebby  the  woman  would 
have  cheated  me,  but  I  had  Hauck  on  the  hip  because  I 
saw  him  kill  a  man  when  he  was  drunk — a  white  man  from 
Fort  Mac  Pherson.  Helped  him  hide  the  body.  And  then — 
oh,  it  was  funny ! — ^I  ran  across  Bucky !  He  was  living  in  a 
shack  a  dozen  miles  from  here,  an'  he  didn't  know  Marge 
was  the  O'Doone  baby.  I  told  him  a  big  lie — told  him 
the  kid  died,  an'  that  I'd  heard  the  woman  had  killed 
herself,  and  that  O'Doone  was  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Mebby 
he  did  have  a  conscience,  the  fool!  Guess  he  was  a  little 
crazy  himself.  Went  away  soon  after  that.  Never 
heard  of  him  since.  An*  I've  been  hanging  round  until 
the  girl  was  old  enough  to  live  with  a  man.  Ain't 
I  done  right,  Mac?  Don't  she  belong  to  me?  An'  to- 
morrow   .    .     ." 

His  head  rolled.  He  recovered  himself  with  an  effort, 
and  leaned  heavily  against  the  table.  His  face  was  almost 
barren  of  human  expression.  It  was  the  face  of  a  monster, 
imlighted  by  reason,  stripped  of  mind  and  soul.  And 
David,  glaring  into  it  across  the  table,  questioned  him 
once  more,  even  as  he  heard  the  crunch  of  footsteps  out- 
side, and  knew  that  Hauck  was  coming — coming  in  all 
probability  to  immask  him  in  the  part  he  had  played. 
But  Hauck  was  too  late.    He  was  ready  to  fight  now,  and 


842     THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

as  he  held  himself  prepared  for  the  struggle  he  asked  that 
question. 

"And  this  man — Bucky;  what  was  his  other  name, 
Brokaw?" 

Brokaw's  thick  lips  moved,  and  then  came  kis  voice, 
in  a  husky  whisper; 

"Tavish!" 


CHAPTER  XXn 

THE  next  instant  Hauck  was  at  the  open  door.  He 
did  not  cross  the  threshold  at  once,  but  stood  there 
for  perhaps  twenty  seconds — his  gray,  hard  face 
looking  in  on  them  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  a  cold 
and  sinister  glitter.  Brokaw,  with  the  fumes  of  liquoi 
thick  in  his  brain,  tried  to  nod  an  invitation  for  him  to 
enter;  his  head  rolled  grotesquely  and  his  voice  was  a  croak. 
David  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  thrusting  back  his  chair. 
From  contemplating  Brokaw's  sagging  body,  Hauck*s  eyes 
were  levelled  at  him.  And  then  his  Hps  parted.  One  would 
not  have  called  it  a  smile.  It  revealed  to  David  a  deadly 
animosity  which  the  man  was  trying  to  hide  under  the  dis^ 
guise  oi  that  grin,  and  he  knew  that  Hauck  had  dis- 
covered that  he  was  not  McKenna.  Swiftly  David  shot  a 
glance  at  Brokaw.  The  giant's  head  and  shoulders  lay 
on  the  table,  and  he  made  a  sudden  daring  effort  to  save  a 
little  more  time  for  himself. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.     "He's  terribly  dnmk." 

Hauck  nodded  his  head — ^he  kept  nodding  it,  that 
cold  glitter  in  his  eyes,  the  steady,  insinuating  grin 
still  there. 

"Yes,  he's  drunk,"  he  said,  his  voice  as  hard  as  a  rock. 
**  Better  come  to  the  house.  I've  got  a  room  for  you. 
There's  only  one  bunk  in  here — ^McKenna." 

He  dragged  out  the  name  slowly,  a  bit  tauntin^y  it 

243 


244  THE  COURAGE  OF  MABGE  01XX)NE 

seemed  to  David.  And  David  laughed.  Might  as  well 
play  his  last  card  well,  he  thought. 

"My  name  isn*t  McKenna,"  he  said.  "It's  David 
Raine.  He  made  a  mistake,  and  he's  so  drunk  I  haven't 
been  able  to  explain." 

Without  answering,  Hauck  backed  out  of  the  door.  It 
was  an  invitation  for  David  to  follow.  Again  he  carried 
his  pack  and  gun  with  him  through  the  darkness,  and 
Hauck  uttered  not  a  word  as  they  returned  to  the  Nest. 
The  night  was  brighter  now,  and  David  could  see  Baree 
close  at  his  heels,  following  him  as  silently  as  a  shadow. 
The  dog  slunk  out  of  sight  when  they  came  to  the  building. 
They  did  not  enter  from  the  rear  this  time.  Hauck  led 
the  way  to  a  door  that  opened  into  the  big  room  from  which 
had  come  the  sound  of  cursing  and  laughter  a  little  before. 
There  were  ten  or  a  dozen  men  in  that  room,  all  white  men, 
and,  upon  entering,  David  was  moved  by  a  sudden  sus- 
picion that  they  were  expecting  him — that  Hauck  had 
prepared  them  for  his  appearance.  There  was  no  liquor  in 
sight.  If  there  had  been  bottles  and  glasses  on  the  tables, 
they  had  been  cleared  away — ^but  no  one  had  thought  to 
wipe  away  certain  liquid  stains  that  David  saw  shim- 
mering wetly  in  the  glow  of  the  three  big  lamps  hanging 
from  the  ceiling.  He  looked  the  men  over  quickly  as  he 
followed  the  free  trader.  Never,  he  thought,  had  he  seen  a 
rougher  or  more  unpleasant-looking  lot.  He  caught  more 
than  one  eye  filled  with  the  glittering  menace  he  had  seen 
in  Hauck's.  Not  a  man  nodded  at  him,  or  spoke  to  him. 
He  passed  close  to  one  raw-boned  individual,  so  close  that 
he  brushed  against  him,  and  there  was  an  unconcealed 
and  threatening  animosity  in  this  man's  face  as  he  glared 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  OTX)ONE    245 

up  at  him.  By  the  time  he  had  passed  through  the  room 
his  suspicion  had  become  a  conviction.  Hauck  had  pur- 
posely put  him  on  parade,  and  there  was  a  deep  and  sinister 
significance  in  the  attitude  of  these  men. 

They  passed  through  the  hall  into  which  he  and  Marge 
had  entered  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  Nest,  and  Hauck 
paused  at  the  door  of  a  room  almost  opposite  to  the  one 
which  the  girl  had  said  belonged  to  her. 
.  "This  will  be  your  room  while  you  are  our  guest,"  he 
said.  The  glitter  in  his  eyes  softened  as  he  nodded  at 
David.  He  tried  to  speak  a  bit  affably,  but  David  felt 
that  his  effort  was  rather  unsuccessful.  It  failed  to  cover 
the  hard  note  in  his  voice  and  the  curious  twitch  of  his 
upper  lip — a  snarl  almost — as  he  forced  a  smile.  "Make 
yourself  at  home,"  he  added.  "We'll  have  breakfast  in 
the  morning  with  my  niece."  He  paused  for  a  moment 
and  then  said,  looking  keenly  at  David:  "I  suppose  you 
tried  hard  to  make  Brokaw  understand  he  had  made  a 
mistake,  and  that  you  wasn't  McKenna?  Brokaw  is 
a  good  fellow  when  he  isn't  drunk." 

David  was  glad  that  he  turned  away  without  waiting 
for  an  answer.  He  did  not  want  to  talk  with  Hauck 
to-night.  He  wanted  to  turn  over  in  his  mind  what  he  had 
learned  from  Brokaw,  and  to-morrow  act  with  the  cool 
judgment  which  was  more  or  less  characteristic  of  him. 
He  did  not  believe  even  now  that  there  would  be  any- 
thing melodramatic  in  the  outcome  of  the  affair.  There 
would  be  an  impleasantness,  of  course;  but  when  both 
Hauck  and  Brokaw  were  confronted  with  a  certain  situa- 
tion, and  with  the  peculiarly  significant  facts  which  he  now 
held  in  his  possession,  he  could  not  see  how  they  would 


£46     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

be  able  to  place  any  very  great  obstacle  in  the  way  of  hw 
determination  to  take  Marge  from  the  Nest.  He  did  not 
think  of  personal  harm  to  himself,  and  as  he  entered  his 
room,  where  a  lamp  had  been  Hghted  for  him,  his  mind 
had  already  begun  to  work  on  a  plan  of  action.  He  would 
compromise  with  them.  In  return  for  the  loss  of  the  girl 
they  should  have  his  promise — ^his  oath,  if  necessary — not 
to  reveal  the  secret  of  the  traffic  in  which  they  were  en- 
gaged, or  of  that  still  more  important  affair  between 
Hauck  and  the  white  man  from  Fort  Mac  Pherson.  He 
was  certain  that,  in  his  drunkenness,  Brokaw  had  spoken 
the  truth,  no  matter  what  he  might  deny  to-morrow. 
They  would  not  hazard  an  investigation,  though  to  lose 
the  girl  now,  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  exultant  realiza- 
tion, would  be  like  taking  the  earth  from  under  Brokaw's 
feet.  In  spite  of  the  tenseness  of  the  situation  David 
found  himself  chuckHng  with  satisfaction.  It  would  be 
impleasant — very — ^he  repeated  that  assurance  to  himself; 
but  that  self-preservation  would  be  the  first  law  of  these 
rascals  he  was  equally  positive,  and  he  began  thinking  of 
other  things  that  just  now  were  of  more  thrilling  import 
to  him. 

It  was  Tavish,  then — that  half -mad  hermit  in  his  mice- 
infested  cabin — ^who  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  it  all! 
Tavish!  The  discovery  did  not  amaze  him  profoimdly. 
He  had  never  been  able  to  dissociate  Tavish  from  the  pic- 
ture, unreasoning  though  he  confessed  himself  to  be,  and 
now  that  his  mildly  impossible  conjectures  had  suddenly 
developed  into  facts,  he  was  not  excited.  It  was  another 
thought — or  other  thoughts — that  stirred  him  more  deeply, 
and  brought  a  heat  into  his  blood.    His  mind  leaped  back 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MAUGE  O'DOONE     247 

to  that  scene  of  years  ago,  when  Marge  0*Doone's  mother 
had  run  shrieking  out  in  the  storm  of  night  to  escape 
Tavish.  But  she  had  not  died  I  That  was  the  thought  that 
burned  in  David's  brain  now.  She  had  Uved.  She  had 
searched  for  her  husband — Michael  O'Doone;  a  half- 
mad  wanderer  of  the  forests  at  first,  she  may  have  been. 
She  had  searched  for  years.  And  she  was  still  searching 
for  him  when  he  had  met  her  that  night  on  the  Trans- 
continental !  For  it  was  she — Marge  0*Doone,  the  mother, 
the  wife,  into  whose  dark,  haunting  eyes  he  had  gazed  from 
out  the  sunless  depths  of  his  own  despair!  Her  mother. 
Alive.     Seeking   a   Michael   O'Doone — seeking — seeking 

He  was  filled  with  a  great  desire  to  go  at  once  to  the 
Girl  and  tell  her  this  wonderful  new  fact  that  had  come 
into  her  life,  and  he  found  himself  suddenly  at  the  door  of 
his  room,  with  his  fingers  on  the  latch.  Standing  there, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  laughing  softly  at  himself  as  he 
realized  how  absurdly  sensational  he  was  becoming  all 
at  once.  To-morrow  would  be  time.  He  filled  and 
lighted  his  pipe,  and  in  the  whitish  fumes  of  his  tobacco  he 
could  picture  quite  easily  the  gray,  dead  face  of  Tavish, 
hanging  at  the  end  ef  his  meat  rack.  Pacing  restlessly 
back  and  forth  across  his  room,  he  recalled  the  scenes  of 
that  night,  and  of  days  and  nights  that  had  followed. 
Brokaw  had  given  him  the  key  that  was  unlocking  door 
after  door.  "Guess  he  was  a  Httle  crazy,"  Brokaw  had 
said,  speaking  of  Tavish  as  he  had  last  known  him  on  the 
Firepan.  Crazy!  Going  mad!  And  at  last  he  had 
killed  himself.  Was  it  possible  that  a  man  of  Tavish's 
sort  could  be  haimted  for  so  long  by  spectres  of  the  past? 


248    THE  COURA.GE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

It  seemed  unreasonable.  He  thought  of  Father  Roland 
and  of  the  mysterious  room  in  the  Chdteau,  where  he 
worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  a  woman  and  a  child  who  were 
gone. 

He  clenched  his  hands,  and  stopped  himself.  What 
had  leapt  into  his  mind  was  as  startUng  to  his  inner  con- 
sciousness as  the  imexpected  flash  of  magne^um  in  a  dark 
room.  It  was  unthinkable — ^impossible;  and  yet,  follow- 
ing it,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  question  after 
^question  which  he  made  no  effort  to  answer.  He  was 
dazed  for  a  moment  as  if  by  the  terrific  impact  of  a  thing 
which  had  neither  weight  nor  form.  Tavish,  the  woman, 
the  girl — ^Father  Roland!  Absurd.  He  shook  himself, 
literally  shook  himself,  to  get  rid  of  that  wildly  impossible 
idea.  He  drove  his  mind  back  to  the  photograph  of  the 
girl — ^and  the  woman.  How  had  she  come  into  possession 
of  the  picture  which  Brokaw  had  taken?  What  had 
Nisikoos  tried  to  say  to  Marge  O'Doone  in  those  last 
moments  when  she  was  dying — ^whispered  words  which  the 
girl  had  not  heard  because  she  was  crying,  and  her  heart 
was  breaking?  Did  Nisikoos  know  that  the  mother  was 
alive?  Had  she  sent  the  picture  to  her  when  she  realized 
that  the  end  of  her  own  time  was  drawing  near?  There 
was  something  unreasonable  in  this  too,  but  it  was  the 
only  solution  that  came  to  him. 

He  was  still  pacing  his  room  when  the  creaking  of  the 
door  stopped  him.  It  was  opening  slowly  and  steadily 
and  apparently  with  extreme  caution.  In  another 
moment  Marge  O'Doone  stood  inside.  He  had  not  seen 
her  face  so  white  before.  Her  eyes  were  big  and  glowing 
darkly — spools  of  quivering  fear,  of  wild  and  imploring 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     |49 

suppBcation.    She  ran  to  him,  and  clung  to  him  with  her 
hands  at  his  shoulders,  her  face  close  to  his. 

"Sakewatcin — dear  Sakewawin — ^we  must  go;  we  must 
hurry — ^to-night ! " 

She  was  trembling,  fairly  shivering  against  him,  with 
one  hand  touching  his  face  now,  and  he  put  his  arms  about 
her  gently. 

"What  is  it,  child?"  he  whispered,  his  heart  choking 
suddenly.     "  What  has  happened?  " 

"  We  must  run  away !    We  must  hurry ! " 

At  the  touch  of  his  arms  she  had  relaxed  against  his 
breast.  The  last  of  her  courage  seemed  gone.  She  was 
limp,  and  terrified,  and  was  looking  up  at  him  in  such  a 
strange  way  that  he  was  filled  with  alarm. 

"I  didn't  tell  him  anything,"  she  whispered,  as  if  afraid 
he  would  not  beHeve  her.  "I  didn't  tell  him  you  weren't 
that  man — ^Mac — ^McKenna.  He  heard  you  and  Brokaw 
go  when  you  passed  my  room.  Then  he  went  to  the  men. 
I  followed — and  hstened.  I  heard  him  teUing  them  about 
you — ^that  you  were  a  spy — that  you  belonged  to  the  pro- 
vincial police    ..." 

A  sound  in  the  hall  interrupted  her.    She  grew  suddenly 
tense  in  his  arms,  then  sHpped  from  them  and  ran  noise- 
lessly to  the  door.    There  were  shuflSing  steps  outside,  a 
i|r  thick  voice  growUng  imintelligibly.    The  soimds  passed. 
Marge  O'Doone  was  whiter  still  when  she  faced  David. 

"Hauck — and  Brokaw!"  She  stood  there,  with  har 
back  to  the  door.  "We  must  hurry,  Sakewawin.  We 
must  go — ^to-night!" 

David  looked  at  her.  A  spy?  Police?  Quite  the  first 
thing  for  Hauck  to  suspect,  of  course.    That  law  of  self* 


I 


250     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

preservation  again — the  same  law  that  would  compel  them 
to  give  up  the  girl  to  him  to-morrow.  He  found  himself 
smiling  at  his  frightened  little  companion,  backed  there 
against  the  door,  white  as  death.  His  calmness  did  not 
reassure  her. 

"He  said — ^you  were  a  spy,"  she  repeated,  as  if  he  must 
understand  what  that  meant.  "They  wanted  to  follow 
you  to  Brokaw's  cabin — ^and — ^and  kill  you!" 

This  was  coming  to  the  bottom  of  her  fear  with  a  ven- 
geance. It  sent  a  mild  sort  of  a  shiver  through  him,  and 
corroborated  with  rather  disturbing  emphasis  what  he  had 
seen  in  the  men*s  faces  as  he  passed  among  them. 

"  And  Hauck  wouldn't  let  them?    Wasthat  it?  "  heasked. 

She  nodded,  clutching  a  hand  at  her  throat. 

"He  told  them  to  do  nothing  until  he  saw  Brokaw.  He 
wanted  to  be  certain.    And  then    .     .     ." 

His  amazing  and  smiling  composure  seemed  to  choke 
back  the  words  on  her  Ups. 

"You  must  return  to  your  room.  Marge,"  he  said 
quickly.  "Hauck  has  now  seen  Brokaw  and  there  will  be 
no  trouble  such  as  you  fear.  I  can  promise  you  that.  To- 
morrow we  will  leave  the  Nest  openly — ^and  with  Hauck's 
and  Brokaw's  permission.  But  should  they  find  you  here 
now — ^in  my  room — I  am  quite  sure  we  should  have  im- 
mediate trouble  on  our  hands.  IVe  a  great  deal  to  tell 
you — much  that  will  make  you  glad,  but  I  half  expect 
another  visit  from  Hauck,  and  you  must  hurry  to  your 
room." 

He  opened  the  door  slightly,  and  Kstened. 

"Good-night,"  he  whispered,  putting  a  hand  for  an 
instant  to  her  hair. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     251 

"Good  night,  Sdkewawin,^^ 

She  hesitated  for  just  a  moment  at  the  door^  and  thenj 
with  the  faintest  sobbing  breath,  was  gone.  What  won- 
derful eyes  she  had!  How  they  had  looked  at  him  in  that 
last  moment!  David's  fingers  were  trembling  a  little  as 
he  locked  his  door.  There  was  a  small  mirror  on  the  table 
and  he  held  it  up  to  look  at  himself.  He  regarded  his  re- 
flection with  grim  amusement.  He  was  not  beautiful. 
The  scrub  of  blond  beard  on  his  face  gave  him  rather  an 
outlawish  appearance.  And  the  gray  hair  over  his  temples 
had  grown  quite  conspicuous  of  late,  quite  conspicuous 
indeed.  Heredity?  Perhaps — but  it  was  confoundedly 
remindful  of  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty-eight! 

He  went  to  bed,  after  placing  the  table  against  the  door, 
and  his  automatic  under  his  pillow — absurd  and  unneces- 
sary details  of  caution,  he  assured  himself.  And  while 
Marge  O'Doone  sat  awake  close  to  the  door  of  her  room 
all  night,  with  a  little  rifle  that  had  belonged  to  Nisikoos 
across  her  lap,  David  slept  soundly  in  the  amazing  con- 
fidence and  philosopher  of  that  perilous  age — thirty-eight  1 


CHAPTER  XXm 

A  SERIES  of  sounds  that  came  to  him  at  first  like  thft 
booming  of  distant  cannon  roused  David  from  his 
slumber.  He  awoke  to  find  broad  day  in  his  room 
and  a  Ipiocking  at  his  door.  He  began  to  dress,  calling  out 
that  he  would  open  it  in  a  moment,  and  was  careful  to 
place  the  automatic  in  his  pocket  before  he  lifted  the  table 
without  a  sound  to  its  former  position  in  the  room.  When 
lie  flimg  open  the  door  he  was  surprised  to  find  Brokaw 
standing  there  instead  of  Hauck.  It  was  not  the  Brokaw 
of  last  night.  A  few  hours  had  produced  a  remarkabk 
change  in  the  man.  One  would  not  have  thought  that  he 
had  been  recently  drunk.  He  was  grinning  and  holding 
out  one  of  his  huge  hands  as  he  looked  into  David's  face. 
•  "Morning,  Raine,"  he  greeted  affably.  "Hauck  sent 
me  to  wake  you  up  for  the  fun.  You've  got  just  time  to 
swallow  your  breakfast  before  we  put  on  the  big  scrap — ■ 
the  scrap  I  told  you  about  last  night,  when  I  was  drunk. 
Head-over-heels  drunk,  wasn't  I?  Took  you  for  a  friend 
I  knew.  Funny.  You  don't  look  a  dam'  bit  like  him!" 
David  shook  hands  with  him.  In  his  first  astonishment 
Brokaw's  manner  appeared  to  him  to  be  quite  sincere,  and 
Lis  voice  to  be  filled  with  apology.  This  impression  was  gone 
before  he  had  dropped  his  hand,  and  he  knew  why  Hauck's 
partner  had  come.  It  was  to  get  a  good  look  at  him — ^to 
make  sure  that  he  was  not  McKenna;  and  it  was  also  with 

25(2 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  0*DOONE     253 

the  strategic  purpose  of  removing  whatever  suspicioMf 
David  might  have  by  an  outward  show  of  friendship.  For 
this  last  bit  of  work  Brokaw  was  crudely  out  of  place 
His  eyes,  like  a  bad  dog's,  could  not  conceal  what  lay  be- 
hind them — ^hatred,  a  deep  and  intense  desire  to  grip  the 
throat  of  this  man  who  had  tricked  him;  and  his  grin  was 
forced,  with  a  subdued  sort  of  malevolence  about  it. 
David  smiled  back. 

"You  were  drunk,"  he  said.  "I  had  a  deuce  of  a  time 
trying  to  make  you  understand  that  I  wasn't  McKenna." 

That  amazing  he  seemed  for  a  moment  to  daze  Brokaw. 
David  realized  the  audacity  of  it,  and  knew  that  Brokaw 
would  remember  too  well  what  had  happened  to  believe 
him.  Its  effect  was  what  he  was  after,  and  if  he  had  had  a 
doubt  as  to  the  motive  of  the  other's  visit  that  doubt  dis- 
appeared almost  as  quickly  as  he  had  spoken.  The  grin 
went  out  of  Brokaw's  face,  his  jaws  tightened,  the  red 
came  nearer  to  the  surface  in  the  bloodshot  eyes.  As 
plainly  as  if  he  were  giving  voice  to  his  thought  he  was 
saying:  "You  he!"  But  he  kept  back  the  words,  and  as 
David  noted  carelessly  the  slow  clenching  and  unclenching 
of  his  hands,  he  beHeved  that  Hauck  was  not  very  far 
away,  and  that  it  was  his  warning  and  the  fact  that  he  was 
possibly  Ustening  to  them,  that  restrained  Brokaw  from 
betraying  himself  completely.  As  it  was,  the  grin  returned 
slowly  into  his  face. 

"Hauck  says  he's  sorry  he  couldn't  have  breakfast  with 
you,"  he  said.  "Couldn't  wait  any  longer.  The  Indian's 
going  to  bring  your  breakfast  here.  You'd  better  hurry 
if  you  want  to  see  the  fun." 

With  this  he  turned  and  walked  heavily  toward  the 


254     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

end  of  the  ball.  David  glanced  across  at  the  door  of 
Marge's  room.  It  was  elosed.  TbiexL  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  almost  nine  o'clock!  He  felt  Hke  swearing 
as  he  thought  of  what  he  had  missed — ^that  breakfast  with 
Hauck  and  the  Girl.  He  would  imdoubtedly  have  had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  Hauck  alone  for  a  Uttle  while — a 
quarter  of  an  hour  would  have  been  enough;  or  he  could 
have  settled  the  whole  matter  in  Marge's  presence.  He 
wondered  where  she  was  now.     In  her  room? 

Approaching  footsteps  caused  him  to  draw  back  deeper 
into  his  own  and  a  moment  later  his  promised  breakfast 
appeared,  carried  on  a  big  Company  keyakun,  by  an  old 
Indian  woman — undoubtedly  the  woman  that  Marge 
had  told  him  about.  She  placed  the  huge  plate  on  his 
table  and  withdrew  without  either  looking  at  him  or  utter- 
it^  a  sound.  He  ate  hurriedly,  and  finished  dressing  him- 
«^  after  that.  It  was  a  quarter  after  nine  when  he  went 
into  the  hall.  In  passing  Marge's  door  he  knocked. 
Th^^  came  no  response  from  within.  He  turned  and 
passed  through  the  big  room  in  which  he  had  seen  so  many 
unfriendly  faces  the  night  before.  It  was  empty  now. 
Hie. stillness  of  the  place  began  to  fill  him  with  uneasiness, 
and  he  hurried  out  into  the  day.  A  low  tumult  of  sound 
was  in  the  air,  unintelhgible  and  yet  thrilling.  A  dozen 
steps  brought  him  to  the  end  of  the  building  and  he  looked 
toward  the  cage.  For  a  space  after  that  he  spood  without 
moving,  filled  with  a  sudden,  sickening  horror  as  he  reahzed 
his  helplessness  in  this  moment.  If  he  had  not  overslept, 
if  he  had  talked  with  Hauck,  he  might  have  prevented  this 
monstrous  thing  that  was  happening — ^he  might  have 
demanded  that  T^:a  be  a  part  of  their  bargain.    It  was 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     ^5 

too  late  now.  An  excited  and  yet  strangely  quiet  crowd 
was  gathered  about  the  cage — a  crowd  so  tense  and  mo- 
tionless that  he  knew  the  battle  was  on.  A  low,  growling 
roar  came  to  him,  and  again  he  heard  that  tumult  of 
human  voices,  Uke  a  great  gasp  rising  spontaneously  out  of 
half  a  hundred  throats,  and  in  response  to  the  sound  he 
gave  a  sudden  cry  of  rage.  Tara  was  aheady  battUng 
for  his  life — Tara,  that  great,  big-souled  brute  who  had 
learned  to  follow  his  little  mistress  Uke  a  protecting  dog, 
and  who  had  accepted  him  as  a  friend — Tara,  grown  soft 
and  lazy  and  unwarhke  because  of  his  voluntary  slavery, 
had  been  offered  to  the  sacrifice  which  Brokaw  had  told 
him  was  inevitable ! 

And  the  Girl!  Where  was  she?  He  was  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  his  hand  was  gripping  hard  at  the  automatic 
in  his  pocket.  For  a  space  his  brain  burned  red,  seething 
with  a  physical  passion,  a  consuming  anger  which,  in  all 
his  life,  had  never  been  roused  so  terrifically  within  him. 
He  rushed  forward  and  took  his  place  in  the  thin  circle  of 
watching  men.  He  did  not  look  at  their  faces.  He  did 
not  know  whether  he  stood  next  to  white  men  or  Indians. 
He  did  not  see  the  blaze  in  their  eyes,  the  joyous  trembling 
of  their  bodies,  their  silent,  savage  exultation  in  the 
spectacle. 

He  was  looking  at  the  cage. 

It  was  20  feet  square — ^built  of  small  trees  almost  a  foot 
in  diameter,  with  18-inch  spaces  between — and  out  of  it 
came  a  sickening,  grinding  smash  of  jaws.  The  two  beasts 
were  down,  a  ton  of  flesh  and  bone,  in  what  seemed  to  him 
to  be  a  death  embrace.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  tell 
which  was  Tara  and  which  was  Brokaw's  grizzly.    They 


^5Q    THE  COUKAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

separated  in  that  same  breath,  gained  their  feet,  and 
stood  facing  each  other.  They  must  have  been  fighting  f oi 
some  minutes.  Tara's  jaws  were  foaming  with  blood 
and  out  of  the  throat  of  Brokaw's  bear  there  rolled  a 
rumbling,  snarling  roar  that  was  like  the  deep-chested 
bellow  of  an  angry  bulL  With  that  roar  they  came  to- 
gether again,  Tara  waiting  stoBdly  and  with  panting 
sides  for  the  rush  of  his  enemy.  It  was  hard  for  David 
to  see  what  was  happening  in  that  twisting  contortioF 
of  huge  bodies,  but  as  they  rolled  heavily  to  one  side 
he  saw  a  great  red  splash  of  blood  where  they  had  lain* 
It  looked  as  if  some  one  had  poured  it  there  out  of  a 
pail. 

Suddenly  a  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  round. 
Brokaw  was  leering  at  him. 

"Great  scrap,  eh?" 

There  was  a  look  in  his  red  face  that  revealed  the  pitiless 
savagery  of  a  cat.  David's  clenched  hand  was  as  hard  as 
iron  and  his  brain  was  filled  with  a  wild  desire  to  strike. 
He  fought  to  hold  himself  in. 

"  Where  is — the  Girl?  "  he  demanded. 

Brokaw's  face  revealed  his  hatred  now,  the  taunting 
triimaph  of  his  power  over  this  man  who  was  a  spy.  He 
bared  his  yellow  teeth  in  an  exultant  grin. 

"Tricked  her,"  he  snarled.  "Tricked  her — ^like  you 
tricked  me!  Got  the  Indian  woman  to  steal  her  clothes, 
an'  she's  up  there  in  her  room — ^alone — an'  naked!  An' 
she  won't  have  any  clothes  until  I  say  so,  for  she's  mine — 
body  and  soul     .     .     ." 

David's  clenched  hand  shot  out,  and  in  his  blow  was 
not  alone  the  cumulated  force  of  ail  his  years  of  training 


THE  COUKAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     257 

but  also  of  the  one  great  impulse  he  had  ever  had  to  kill. 
In  that  instant  he  wanted  to  strike  a  man  dead — a  red- 
visaged  monster,  a  fiend;  and  his  blow  sent  Brokaw's  huge 
body  reeling  backward,  his  head  twisted  as  if  his  neck 
had  been  broken.  He  had  not  time  to  see  what  hap- 
pened after  that  blow.  He  did  not  see  Brokaw  fall.  A 
piercing  interruption — a  scream  that  startled  every  drop 
of  blood  in  his  body — ^turned  him  toward  the  cage.  Ten 
paces  from  him,  standing  at  the  inner  edge  of  that  circle 
of  astounded  and  petrified  men,  was  the  Girl!  At  first 
he  thought  she  was  staiading  naked  there — naked  under  the 
staring  eyes  of  the  fiends  about  him.  Her  white  arms 
gleamed  bare,  her  shoulders  and  breast  were  bare,  hei 
s(iim,  satiny  body  was  naked  to  the  waist,  about  which  she 
had  drawn  tightly — ^as  if  in  a  wild  panic  of  haste — an  old 
and  ragged  skirt!  It  was  the  Indian  woman's  skirt.  He 
oiught  the  ghtter  of  beads  on  it,  and  for  a  moment  he 
siiared  with  the  others,  unable  to  move  or  cry  out  her  name. 
And  then  a  breath  of  wind  flung  back  her  hair  and  he  saw 
her  face  the  colour  of  marble.  She  was  like  a  piece  of 
glistening  statuary,  without  a  quiver  of  life  that  his  eyes 
could  see,  without  a  movement,  without  a  breath.  Only 
her  hair  moved,  stirred  by  the  air,  flooded  by  the  sun, 
floating  about  her  shoulders  and  down  her  bare  back  in  a 
lucent  cloud  of  red  and  gold  fires — ^and  out  of  this  she  was 
staring  at  the  cage,  stunned  into  that  lifeless  and  un- 
breathing  posture  of  horror  by  what  she  saw.  David  did 
Bot  follow  her  eyes.  He  heard  the  growl  and  roar  and 
clashing  jaws  of  the  fighting  beasts;  they  were  down  again; 
one  of  the  6-inch  trees  that  formed  the  bars  of  the  cage 
snapped  like  a  walking  stick  as  their  great  bodies  lurched 


258     THE  COUEAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE 

against  it;  the  earth  shook,  the  very  air  seemed  to  tremble 
with  the  terrific  force  of  the  struggle— and  only  the  Girl 
was  looking  at  that  struggle.  Every  eye  was  on  her  now, 
and  David  sprang  suddenly  forth  from  the  circle  of  men, 
calling  her  name. 

Ten  paces  separated  them;  half  that  distance  lay  be- 
tween the  Girl  and  the  cage.  With  the  swiftness  of  an 
arrow  sprung  from  the  bow  she  had  leaped  into  life  and 
crossed  that  space.  In  a  tenth  part  of  a  second  David 
would  have  been  at  her  side.  He  was  that  tenth  of  a 
second  too  late.  A  gleaming  shaft,  i^e  had  passed  between 
the  bars  and  a  tumult  of  horrified  voices  rose  above  the 
roar  of  battle  as  the  girl  sprang  at  the  beasts  with  her  naked 
hands. 

Her  voice  came  to  David  in  a  scream. 

"Tara— Tara— Tara " 

His  brain  reeled  when  he  saw  her  down — down! — ^with 
her  little  fists  pummeUing  at  a  great,  shaggy  head;  and  in 
him  there  was  the  sickening  weakness  of  a  drunken  man  as 
he  squeezed  through  that  18-inch  aperture  and  almost  fell 
at  her  side.  He  did  not  know  that  he  had  drawn  his  auto- 
matic; he  scarcely  realized  that  as  fast  as  his  fingers  could 
press  the  trigger  he  was  firing  shot  after  shot,  with  the 
muzzle  of  his  pistol  so  close  to  the  head  of  Tara*s  enemy 
that  the  reports  of  the  weapon  were  deadened  as  if  muffled 
under  a  thick  blanket.  It  was  a  heavy  weapon.  A 
stream  of  lead  burned  its  way  into  the  grizzly's  brain. 
There  were  eleven  shots  and  he  fired  them  all  in  that  wild, 
blood-red  frenzy;  and  when  he  stood  up  he  had  the  girl 
close  in  his  arms,  her  naked  l»^east  throbbing  pantingly 
against  him.    The  clasp  of  his  hands  against  her  warm 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     259 

flesh  cleared  his  head,  and  while  Tara  was  rending  at 
the  throat  of  his  dying  foe,  David  drew  her  swiftly  out 
of  the  cage  and  flung  about  her  the  Ught  jacket  he  had 
worn. 

"Go  to  your  room,"  he  said.  "Tara  is  safe.  I  will 
see  that  no  harm  comes  to  him  now." 

The  cordon  of  men  separated  for  them  as  he  led  her 
through.  The  crowd  was  so  silent  that  they  could  hear 
Tara's  low  throat-growling.  And  then,  breaking  that 
silence  in  a  savage  cry,  came  Brokaw's  voice. 

"Stop!" 

He  faced  them,  huge,  terrible,  quivering  with  rage.  A 
step  behind  him  was  Hauck,  and  there  was  no  longer  in  his 
face  an  effort  to  conceal  his  murderous  intentions.  Close 
behind  Hauck  there  gathered  quickly  his  white-faced 
whisky-mongers  like  a  pack  of  wolves  waiting  for  a  lead- 
cry.  David  expected  that  cry  to  come  from  Brokaw. 
The  Girl  expected  it,  and  she  dung  to  David's  shoulders, 
her  bloodless  face  turned  to  the  danger. 

It  was  Brokaw  who  gave  the  signal  to  the  men. 

"Clear  out  the  cage!"  he  bellowed.  "This  danmed 
spy  has  killed  my  bear  and  he's  got  to  fight  me!  Do  you 
imderstand?     Clear  out  the  cage ! " 

He  thrust  his  head  and  bull  shoulders  forward  until  his 
foul,  hot  breath  touched  their  faces,  and  his  red  neck  was 
swollen  like  the  neck  of  a  cobra  with  the  passion  of  his 
jealousy  and  hatred. 

"And  in  that  fight — ^I'm  going  to  kill  you!"  he 
hissed. 

It  was  Hauck  who  put  his  hands  on  the  Girl. 

"Go  with  him,"  whispered  David,  as  her  arms  tightened 


260    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

about  his  shoulders.  "You  must  go  with  him,  Marge—* 
if  I  am  to  have  a  chance ! " 

Her  face  was  against  him.  She  was  talking,  low,  swiftly, 
for  his  ears  alone — ^with  Hauck  already  beginning  to  pull 
her  away. 

"I  will  go  to  the  house.  When  you  see  me  at  that  win- 
dow, fall  on  your  face.  I  have  a  rifle — I  will  shoot  him 
dead — ^from  the  window    .     .     ." 

Perhaps  Hauck  heard.  David  wondered  as  he  caught 
the  ghtter  in  his  eyes  when  he  drew  the  Girl  away.  He 
heard  the  crash  of  the  big  gate  to  the  cage,  and  Taj^a 
ambled  out  and  took  his  way  slowly  and  Hmpingly  towa):d 
the  edge  of  the  forest.  When  he  saw  the  Girl  again,  lie 
was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  cage,  his  feet  in  a  pool 
of  blood  that  smeared  the  ground.  She  was  strugghng 
with  Hauck,  struggling  to  break  from  him  and  get  to  tlie 
house.  And  now  he  knew  that  Hauck  had  heard,  and  thiit 
he  would  hold  her  there,  and  that  her  eyes  would  be  (»n 
him  while  Brokaw  was  killing  him.  For  he  knew  that 
Brokaw  would  fight  to  kill.  It  would  not  be  a  square 
fight.  It  would  be  murder — ^if  the  chance  came  Brokaw's 
way.  The  thought  did  not  frighten  him.  He  was  growing 
strangely  calm  in  these  moments.  He  realized  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  unencumbered,  and  he  stripped  off  his 
shirt,  and  tightened  his  belt.  And  then  Brokaw  entered. 
The  giant  had  stripped  himself  to  the  waist,  and  he  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  David,  a  monster  with  the  lust  of 
murder  in  his  eyes.  It  was  frightfully  unequal — this 
combat.  David  felt  it,  he  was  blind  if  he  did  not  see  it, 
and  yet  he  was  still  unafraid.  A  great  silence  fell.  Cut- 
ting it  like  a  knife  came  the  Girl's  voice: 


THE  COUBAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE     261 

"Sakewamn — Sahewawin    .     .     ." 

A  brutish  growl  rose  out  of  Brokaw's  chest.  He  had 
heard  that  cry,  and  it  stung  him  Uke  an  asp. 

"To-night,  she  will  be  with  me,"  he  taunted  .Oavi<i.  and 
lowered  his  head  for  battle. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DAVID  no  longer  saw  the  horde  of  faces  beyond  the 
thick  bars  of  the  cage.  His  last  glance,  shot  past 
the  lowered  head  and  hulking  shoulders  of  his  giant 
adversary,  went  to  the  Girl.  He  noticed  that  she  had 
ceased  her  struggHng  and  was  looking  toward  him.  After 
that  his  eyes  never  left  Brokaw's  face.  Until  now  it  had 
not  seemed  that  Brokaw  was  so  big  and  so  powerful,  and, 
sizing  up  his  enemy  in  that  moment  before  the  first  rush, 
he  realized  that  his  one  hope  was  to  keep  him  from  using 
his  enormous  strength  at  close  quarters.  A  clinch  would 
be  fatal.  In  Brokaw's  arms  he  would  be  helpless;  he  was 
conscious  of  an  unpleasant  thrill  as  he  thought  how  easy  it 
would  be  for  the  other  to  break  his  back,  or  snap  his  neck, 
if  he  gave  him  the  opportunity.  Science!  What  would 
it  avail  him  here,  pitted  against  this  mountain  of  flesh  and 
bone  that  looked  as  though  it  might  stand  the  beating  of 
clubs  without  being  conquered!  His  first  blow  returned 
his  confidence,  even  if  it  had  wavered  sHghtly.  Brokaw 
rushed.  It  was  an  easy  attack  to  evade,  and  David's  arm 
shot  out  and  his  fist  landed  against  Brokaw's  head  with  a 
sound  that  was  like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  Hauck  would 
have  gone  down  under  that  blow  like  a  log.  Brokaw 
staggered.  Even  he  realized  that  this  was  science — the 
skill  of  the  game — ^and  he  was  grinning  as  he  advanced 
again.    He  could  stand  a  hundred  blows  hke  that — a  grim 

£62 


THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      263 

and  ferocious  Achilles  with  but  one  vulnerable  point,  the 
end  of  his  jaw.  David  waited  and  w^atched  for  his  oppor- 
tunity as  he  gave  ground  slowly.  Twice  they  circled 
ftbout  the  blood-spattered  arena,  Brokaw  following  him 
with  Idsurely  sureness,  and  yet  delaying  his  attack  as  if  in 
that  steady  retreat  of  his  victim  he  saw  torture  too  satisfying 
to  put  an  end  to  at  once.  David  measured  his  carelessness, 
the  slow  almost  unguarded  movement  of  his  great  bcdy, 
his  unpreparedness  for  a  cowp  de  main — and  like  a  flash  he 
launched  himself  forward  with  all  the  weight  of  his  body 
behind  his  effort. 

It  missed  the  other's  Jaw  by  two  inches,  that  catapeltic 
blow — striking  him  full  in  the  mouth,  breaking  his  yellow 
teeth  and  smashing  his  thick  Hps  so  that  the  blood  sprang 
out  in  a  spray  over  his  hairy  chest,  and  as  his  head  rocked 
backward  David  followed  with  a  swift  left-hander,  and  a 
second  time  missed  the  jaw  with  his  right — ^but  drenched 
his  clenched  fist  in  blood.  Out  of  Brokaw  there  came  a 
cry  that  was  Uke  the  low  roar  of  a  beast;  a  cry  that  was  the 
most  inhuman  sound  David  had  ever  heard  from  a  human 
throat,  and  in  an  instant  he  found  himself  battUng  not  for 
victory,  not  for  that  opportunity  he  twice  had  missed,  but 
for  his  life.  Against  that  rushing  bulk,  enraged  almost  to 
madness,  the  ingenuity  of  his  training  alone  saved  him 
from  immediate  extinction.  How  many  times  he  struck 
in  the  120  seconds  following  his  blow  to  .Brokaw's  mouth 
he  could  never  have  told.  He  was  red  with  Brokaw's 
blood.  His  face  was  warm  with  it.  *His  hands  were  as  if 
painted,  so  often  did  they  reach  with  right  and  left  to 
Brokaw's  gory  visage.  It  was  like  striking  at  a  monstrous 
thing  without  the  sense  of  hurt,  a  fiend  that  had  no  brain 


264     THE  COUIUGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

that  blows  could  sicken,  a  body  that  was  not  a  body  but 
an  enormity  that  had  strangely  taken  human  form.  Bro- 
kaw  had  struck  him  once — only  once — ^in  those  two  min- 
utes, but  blows  were  not  what  he  feared  now.  He  was 
beating  himself  to  pieces,  hterally  beating  himself  to 
pieces  as  a  ship  might  have  hammered  itself  against  a  reef, 
and  fighting  with  every  breath  to  keep  himself  out  of  the 
fatal  clinch.  His  efforts  were  costing  him  more  than  they 
were  costing  his  antagonist.  Twice  he  had  reached  his 
jaw,  twice  Brokaw's  head  had  rocked  back  on  his  shoulders 
— and  then  he  was  there  again,  closing  in  on  him,  grinning, 
dripping  red  to  the  soles  of  his  feet,  unconquerable.  Was 
there  no  fairness  out  there  beyond  the  bars  of  the  cage? 
Were  they  all  like  the  man  he  was  fighting — devils?  An 
intermission — only  half  a  minute.  Enough  to  give  him  a 
chance.  The  slow,  invincible  beast  he  was  hammering 
almost  had  him  as  his  thoughts  wandered.  He  only  half 
fended  the  sledge-hke  blow  that  came  straight  for  his  face. 
He  ducked,  swujig  up  his  guard  like  hghtning,  and  was 
saved  from  death  by  a  miracle.  That  blow  would  have 
crushed  in  his  face — Skilled  him.  He  knew  it.  Brokaw's 
huge  fist  landed  against  the  side  of  his  head  and  grazed  off 
like  a  bullet  that  had  struck  the  slanting  surface  of  a  rock. 
Yet  *the  force  of  it  was  sufficient  to  send  him  crashing 
against  the  bars — and  doton. 

In  that  moment  he  thanked  God  for  Brokaw's  slowness. 
He  had  a  clear  recollection  afterward  of  almost  having 
spoken  the  words  as  he  lay  dazed  and  helpless  for  an  in- 
finitesimal space  of  time.  He  expected  Brokaw  to  end  it 
there.  But  Brokaw  stood  mopping  the  blood  from  his  face, 
as  if  partly  bhnded  by  it,  while  from  beyond  the  cage  there 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O^DOONE     ^^ 

came  a  swiftly  growing  rumble  of  voices.  He  heard  a 
scream.  It  was  the  scream — the  agonized  cry — of  the 
Girl,  that  brought  him  to  his  feet  while  Brokaw  was  still 
wiping  the  hot  flow  from  his  dripping  jaw.  It  was  that 
cry  that  cleared  his  brain,  that  called  out  to  him  in  its 
de^air  that  he  miist  win,  that  aU  was  lost  for  her  as  wdl  as 
for  himself  if  he  was  vanquished — ^for  Miore  positively 
than  at  any  other  time  during  the  fight  he  felt  now  that 
defeat  would  mean  death.  It  had  come  to  him  definitely 
in  the  savage  outcry  of  joy  when  he  was  down.  There 
was  to  be  no  mercy.  He  had  read  the  ominous  decree. 
And  Brokaw     .     .     . 

He  was  Uke  a  madman  as  he  came  toward  him  again. 
There  was  no  longer  the  leer  on  his  face.  There  was  in  his 
battered  and  swollen  countenance  but  one  emotion. 
Blood  and  hm-t  could  not  hide  it.  It  blamed  hke  fires  in 
his  half-closed  eyes.  It  was  the  desire  to  kill.  The 
passion  which  quenches  ttself  in  the  taking  of  life,  and 
every  fibre  in  David's  brain  rose  to  meet  it.  He  knew  that 
it  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  blows  on  his  part — it  was  like 
the  David  of  old  facing  Goliath  with  his  bare  hands. 
Curiously  the  thought  of  Goliath  came  to  him  in  these 
flashing  moments.  Here,  too,  there  must  be  trickery, 
something  unexpected,  a  deadly  stratagem,  and  his  brain 
must  work  out  his  salvation  quickly.  Another  two  or 
three  minutes  and  it  would  be  over  one  way  or  the  other. 
He  made  his  decision.  The  tricks  of  his  own  art  were  in- 
adequate, but  there  was  still  one  hope — one  last  chance. 
It  was  the  so-called  "knee-break"  of  the  bush  country,  a 
horrible  thing,  he  had  thought,  when  Father  ttoland  had 
taught  it  to  him.     "Break  your  opponent's  knees,"  the 


266     THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Missioner  had  said,  "and  you've  got  him."  He  had  never 
practised  it.  But  he  knew  the  method,  and  he  remem- 
bered the  Little  Missioner's  words — "when  he's  straight 
facing  you,  with  all  your  weight,  like  a  cannon  ball!" 
And  suddenly  he  shot  himself  out  like  that,  as  Brokaw  was 
about  to  rush  upon  him — a  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of 
solid  flesh  and  bone  against  the  joints  of  Brokaw's  knees  I 

The  shock  dazed  him.  There  was  a  sharp  pain  in  his 
left  shoulder,  and  with  that  shock  and  pain  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  terrible  cry  as  Brokaw  crashed  over  him.  He 
was  on  his  feet  when  Brokaw  was  on  his  knees.  Whether 
or  not  they  were  really  broken  he  could  not  tell.  With 
all  the  strength  in  his  body  he  sent  his  right  again  and 
again  to  the  bleeding  jaw  of  his  enemy.  Brokaw  reached 
up  and  caught  him  in  his  huge  arms,  but  that  jaw  was 
there,  unprotected,  and  David  battered  it  as  he  might 
have  battered  a  rock  with  a  hammer.  A  gasping  cry  rose 
out  of  the  giant's  throat,  his  head  sank  backward — and 
through  a  red  fury,  through  blood  that  spattered  up  into 
his  face,  David  continued  to  strike  until  the  arms  relaxed 
aWut  him,  and  with  a  choking  gurgle  of  blood  in  his  throat, 
Brokaw  dropped  back  Kmply,  as  if  dead. 

And  then  David  looked  again  beyond  the  bars.  The 
staring  faces  had  drawn  nearer  to  the  cage,  bewildered, 
stupefied,  disbelieving,  Uke  the  faces  of  stone  images. 
For  a  space  it  was  so  quiet  that  it  seemed  to  him  they  must 
hear  his  panting  breath  and  the  choking  gurgle  that  was 
still  in  Brokaw's  throat.  The  victor!  He  flung  back  his 
shoulders  and  held  up  his  head,  though  he  had  great  desire 
to  stagger  against  one  of  the  bars  and  rest.  He  could 
see  the  Girl  and  Hauck — ^and  now  the  girl  was  standing 


THE  COURA.GE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     267 

alone,  looking  at  him.  She  had  seen  him!  She  had  seen 
him  beat  that  giant  beast,  and  a  great  pride  rose  in  his 
breast  and  spread  in  a  joyous  Hght  over  his  bloody  face. 
Suddenly  he  lifted  his  hand  and  waved  it  at  her.  In  a 
flash  she  was  coming  to  him.  She  would  have  broken 
her  way  through  the  cordon  of  men,  but  Hauck  stopped 
her.  He  had  seen  Hauck  talking  swiftly  to  two  of  the 
white  men.  And  now  Hauck  caught  the  girl  and  held  her 
back.  David  knew  that  he  was  dripping  red  and  he  was 
glad  that  she  came  no  nearer.  Hauck  was  telling  her  to 
go  to  the  house?,  and  David  nodded,  and  with  a  movement 
of  his  hand  made  her  imderstand  that  she  must  obey. 
Not  imtil  he  saw  her  going  did  he  pick  up  his  shirt  and  step 
out  among  the  men.  Three  or  four  of  the  whites  went  to 
Brokaw.  The  rest  stared  at  him  still  in  that  amazed 
silence  as  he  passed  among  them.  He  nodded  and 
smiled  at  them,  as  though  beating  Brokaw  had  not  been 
such  a  terrible  task  after  all.  He  noticed  there  was 
scarcely  an  expression  in  the  faces  of  the  Indians.  And 
then  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Hauck,  and  a  step 
or  two  behind  Hauck  were  the  two  white  men  he  had 
talked  to  so  hurriedly.  One  of  them  was  the  man  David 
had  brushed  against  in  passing  through  the  big  room. 
There  was  a  grin  in  his  face  now.  There  was  a  grin  in 
Hauck's  face,  and  a  grin  in  the  face  of  the  third  man, 
and  to  David's  astonishment  Hauck  thrust  out  his 
hand. 

"Shake,  Raine!  I'd  have  bet  a  thousand  to  fifty  you 
were  loser,  but  there  wasn't  a  dollar  going  your  way.  A 
great  fight!" 

He  turned  to  the  other  two. 


268     THE  COHRAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Take  Raine  to  his  room,  boys.  Help  'im  wash  up 
I've  got  to  see  to  Brokaw — an'  this  crowd." 

David  protested.  He  was  all  right.  He  needed  onry 
water  and  soap,  both  of  which  were  in  his  room,  but  Hauck 
insisted  that  it  wasn't  square,  and  wouldn't  look  right,  if 
he  didn't  have  friends  as  well  as  Brokaw.  Brokaw  had 
forced  the  affair  so  suddenly  that  none  of  them  had  had 
time  or  thought  to  speak  an  encouraging  or  friendly  word 
before  the  fight.  Langdon  and  Henry  would  go  with  him 
now.  He  walked  between  the  two  to  the  Nest,  and  entered 
his  room  with  them.  Langdon,  the  tall  man  who  had 
looked  hatred  at  him  last  night,  poured  water  into  a  tin 
basin  while  Henry,  the  smaller  man,  closed  his  door. 
They  appeared  quite  companionable,  especially  Langdon. 

"Didn't  like  you  last  night,"  he  confessed  frankly. 
"Thought  you  was  one  of  them  damned  poUce,  nmning 
yoiu"  nose  into  our  business  mebby." 

He  stood  beside  David,  with  the  pail  of  water  in  his 
hand,  and  as  David  bent  over  the  basin  Henry  was  behind 
him.  He  had  drawn  something  from  his  pocket,  and  was 
edging  up  close.  As  David  dipped  his  hands  in  the  water 
he  looJked  up  into  Langdon's  face,  and  he  saw  there  a 
strange  and  unexpected  change — ^that  deadly  maKgnity 
of  last  night.  In  that  moment  the  object  in  Henry's  hand 
fell  with  terrific  force  on  his  head  and  he  crumpled  down 
over  the  basin.  He  was  conscious  of  a  single  agonizing 
pain,  Hke  a  hot  iron  thrust  suddenly  through  him,  and 
then  a  great  and  engulfing  pit  of  darkness  closed  about  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  THAT  chaotic  night  in  which  he  was  drifting,  David 
experienced  neither  pain  nor  very  much  of  the  sense 
of  life.  And  yet,  without  seeing  or  feeUng,  he  seemed 
to  be  living.  All  was  dead  within  him  but  that  last 
cons<3iousness,  which  is  almost  the  spirit;  he  might  have 
been  dreaming,  and  minutes,  hours,  or  even  years  might 
have  passed  in  that  dream.  For  a  long  time  he  seemed  to 
b<:  sinking  through  the  blackness;  and  then  something 
st^pped  him,  without  jar  or  shock,  and  he  was  rising. 
H(;  could  hear  nothing  at  first.  There  was  a  vast  silence 
about  him,  a  silence  as  deep  and  unbroken  as  the  abysmal 
pit  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  floating.  After  that  he  felt 
himself  swaying  and  rocking,  as  though  tossed  gently  on 
the  billows  of  a  sea.  This  was  the  first  thought  that  took 
shape  in  his  struggling  brain — ^he  was  at  sea;  he  was  on  a 
«hip  in  the  heart  of  a  black  night,  and  he  was  alone.  He 
tried  to  call  out,  but  his  tongue  seemed  gone.  It  seemed 
a  long  time  before  day  broke,  and  then  it  was  strange  day. 
Little  needles  of  light  pricked  his  eyes;  silver  strings  shol 
like  flashes  of  wave-Uke  lightning  through  the  darkness, 
and  he  began  to  feel,  and  to  hear.  A  dozen  hands  seemed 
holding  him  down  until  he  could  move  neither  arms  nor 
feet.  He  heard  voices.  There  appeared  to  be  many  of 
them  at  first,  an  unintelligible  rumble  of  voices,  and  then 
v«y  swiftly  they  became  two. 


270     THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE 

He  opened  his  eyes.  The  first  thing  that  he  observed 
was  a  bar  of  surJight  against  the  eastern  wall  of  his  room. 
That  bit  of  sunhght  was  hke  a  magnet  thrown  there  to 
reassemble  the  faculties  that  had  drifted  away  from  him 
in  the  dark  night  of  his  unconsciousness.  It  tried  to  tell 
him,  first  of  all,  that  it  was  afternoon — quite  late  in  the 
afternoon.  He  would  have  sensed  that  fact  in  another 
moment  or  two,  but  something  came  between  him  and  the 
radiance  flung  by  the  westward  slant  of  the  sun.  It  was  a 
face,  two  faces — ^first  Hauck*s  and  then  Brokaw's!  Yes, 
Brokaw  was  there!  Staring  down  at  him.  A  fiend  still. 
And  almost  unrecognizable.  He  was  no  longer  stripped, 
and  he  was  no  longer  bloody.  His  countenance  was 
swollen;  his  lips  were  raw,  one  eye  was  closed — ^but  the 
other  gleamed  Uke  a  devil's.  David  tried  to  sit  up.  He 
managed  with  an  effort,  and  balanced  himself  on  the  edge 
of  his  cot.  His  head  was  dizzy,  and  he  felt  clumsy  and 
helpless  as  a  stuffed  bag.  His  hands  were  tied  behind 
him,  and  his  feet  were  boimd.  He  thought  Hauck  looked 
like  an  exultant  gargoyle  as  he  stood  there  with  a  horrible 
grin  on  his  face,  and  Brokaw    .     .     . 

It  was  Brokaw  who  bent  over  him,  his  thick  fingers 
knotting,  his  open  eyes  fairly  livid. 

"I'm  glad  you  ain't  dead,  Raine." 

His  voice  was  husky,  muffled  by  the  swollen  thickness 
of  his  battered  lip^s. 

"Thanks,"  said  David.  The  dizziness  was  leaving  him, 
but  there  was  a  steady  pain  in  his  head.  He  tried  to  smile. 
"Thanks!"  It  was  rather  idiotic  of  him  to  say  that. 
Brokaw's  hands  were  moving  slowly  toward  his  throat 
when  Hauck  drew  him  back. 


THE  COURA.GE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     271 

"I  won't  touch  him — ^not  now,"  he  growled.  "But 
to-night— oh,  God!" 

His  knuckles  snapped.  * 

"You — ^liar!  You — spy!  You — ^sneak!"  he  cursed 
through  his  broken  teeth.  David  saw  where  they  had 
been — a  cavity  in  that  cruel,  battered  mouth.  "And  you 
think,  after  that     ..." 

Again  Hauck  tried  to  draw  him  away.  Brokaw  flung 
off  his  hands  angrily. 

"I  won't  touch  him— but  I'll  Ull  him,  Hauck!  The 
devil  take  me  body  and  soul  if  I  don't!  I  want  him  to 
know     .     .     ." 

"You're  a  fool!"  cried  Hauck.     "Stop,  or  by  Heaven! 

Brokaw  opened  his  mouth  and  laughed,  and  David  saw 
the  havoc  of  his  blows. 

"You'll  do  whaiy  Hauck?  Nothing — that's  what  you'll 
do!  Ain't  I  told  him  you  killed  that  na'po  from  Mac- 
Pherson?  Ain't  I  told  him  enough  to  set  us  both  swing- 
ing?" He  bent  over  David  until  his  breath  struck  his 
face.  "I'm  glad  you  didn't  die,  Raine,"  he  repeated, 
"because  I  want  to  see  you  when  you  shuffle  off.  We're 
only  waiting  for  the  Indians  to  go.  Old  Wapi  starts  with 
his  tribe  at  sunset.  I'm  sorry,  but  we  can't  get  the  heathen 
away  any  earlier  because  he  says  it's  good  luck  to  start  a 
journey  at  sunset  in  the  moulting  moon.  You'll  start 
yours  a  little  later — as  soon  as  they're  out  of  sound  of  a 
rifle  shot.  You  can't  trust  Indians,  eh?  You  made  a  hit 
with  old  Wapi,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  let  him  know  we're 
going  to  send  you  where  you  sent  my  bear.  Eh — would 
it?" 


272     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"You  mean — ^you're  going  to  murder  me?"  said  David 

"K  standing  you  up  against  a  tree  and  putting  a  bulled 
through  your  heart  is  murder — yes,"  gloated  Brokaw. 

"Murder — "  repeated  David. 

He  seemed  powerless  to  say  more  than  that.  An  over 
whelming  dizziness  was  creeping  over  him,  the  pain  wa** 
splitting  his  head,  and  he  swayed  backward.  He  fought  t< 
recover  himself,  to  hold  himself  up,  but  that  returning 
sickness  reached  from  his  brain  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach,, 
and  with  a  groan  he  sank  face  downward  on  the  cot 
Brokaw  was  still  talking,  but  he  could  no  longer  under 
stand  his  words.  He  heard  Hauck's  sharp  voice,  theij 
retreating  footsteps,  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  door- 
fighting  all  the  time  to  keep  himself  from  faUing  off  into 
that  black  and  bottomless  pit  again.  It  was  many  minutey 
before  he  drew  himself  to  a  sitting  posture  on  the  edge  of' 
his  cot,  this  time  slowly  and  guardedly,  so  that  he  woul<? 
not  rouse  the  pain  in  his  head.  It  was  there.  He  coiilcf 
feel  it  burning  steadily  and  deeply,  Uke  one  of  his  old-timt 
headaches. 

The  bar  of  sunlight  was  gone  from  the  wall,  and  through 
the  one  small  window  in  the  west  end  of  his  room  he  saw 
the  fading  light  of  day  outside.  It  was  morning  when  he 
had  fought  Brokaw;  it  was  now  almost  night.  The  wash* 
basin  was  where  it  had  fallen  when  Henry  struck  him* 
He  saw  a  red  stain  on  the  floor  where  he  must  have  dropped. 
Then  again  he  looked  at  the  window.  It  was  rather  oddly 
out  of  place,  so  high  up  that  one  could  not  look  in  from  tho 
outside — a  rectangular  slit  to  let  in  light,  and  so  narrow 
that  a  man  could  not  have  wormed  his  way  through  it. 
He  had  seen  nothing  particularly  significant  in  its  location 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     273 

last  night,  or  this  morning,  but  now  its  meaning  struck 
him  as  forcibly  as  that  of  the  pieces  of  habiche  thong  that 
bound  his  wrists  and  ankles.  A  guest  might  be  housed 
in  this  room  without  suspicion  and  at  the  turn  of  a  key 
be  made  a  prisoner.  There  was  no  way  of  escape  imless 
one  broke  down  the  heavy  door  or  cut  through  the  log 
walls. 

Gradually  he  was  overcoming  his  sensation  of  sickness. 
His  head  was  clearing,  and  he  began  to  breathe  more 
deeply.  He  tried  to  move  his  cramped  arms.  They  were 
mthout  feeling,  lifeless  weights  hung  to  his  shoulders. 
With  an  effort  he  thrust  out  his  feet.  And  then — ^through 
the  window — there  came  to  him  a  low,  thriUing  sound. 

It  was  the  muffled  booniy  boom,  boom  of  a  tom-tom. 

Wapi  and  his  Indians  were  going,  and  he  heard  now  a 
wreird  and  growing  chant,  a  savage  paean  to  the  wild  gods 
«)f  the  Moulting  Moon.  A  gasp  rose  in  his  throat.  It  was 
almost  a  cry.  His  last  hope  was  going — ^with  Wapi  and 
iiis  tribe!  Would  they  help  him  if  they  knew?  If  he 
ihouted?  If  he  shrieked  for  them  through  that  open 
window?  It  was  a  mad  thought,  an  impossible  thought, 
but  it  set  his  heart  throbbing  for  a  moment.  And  then — 
suddenly — ^it  seemed  to  stand  still.  A  key  rattled,  turned; 
;;he  door  opened — and  Marge  O'Doone  stood  before  him! 

She  was  panting — sobbing,  as  if  she  had  been  running  a 
iong  distance.  She  made  no  effort  to  speak,  but  dropped 
at  his  feet  and  began  sawing  at  the  caribou  babiche  with  a 
^nife.  She  had  come  prepared  with  that  knife!  He  felt 
whe  bonds  snap,  and  before  either  had  spoken  she  was  at 
liis  back,  and  his  hands  were  free.  They  were  like  lead. 
She  dropped  the  knife  then,  and  her  hands  were  at  his  face 


274     THE  COURAGE  OF  MAEGE  O'DOONE 

— dark  with  dry  stain  of  blood,  and  over  and  over  again 
she  was  caUing  him  by  the  name  she  had  given  him — 
Sakewaidn.  And  then  the  tribal  chant  of  Wapi  and  his 
people  grew  nearer  and  louder  as  they  passed  into  the  for- 
est, and  with  a  choking  cry  the  Girl  drew  back  from 
David  and  stood  facing  him. 

"I — must  hurry,"  she  said,  swiftly.  "Listen!  They 
are  going !  Hauck  or  Brokaw  will  go  as  far  as  the  lake  with 
Wapi,  and  the  one  who  does  not  go  will  return  here,  '  See, 
Sakewawin — I  have  brought  you  a  knife !  When  he  comes 
— ^you  must  kill  him!" 

The  chanting  voices  had  passed.  The  paean  was 
dying  away  in  the  direction  of  the  forest. 

He  did  not  interrupt  her.  With  hand  clutched  at  her 
breast  she  went  on. 

"I  waited — until  all  were  out  there.  They  kept  me  in 
my  room  and  left  Marcee — the  old  Indian  woman — to 
watch  me.  TVTien  they  were  all  out  to  see  Wapi  off,  I 
struck  her  over  the  head  with  the  end  of  Nisikoos'  rifte. 
Maybe  she  is  dead.  Tara  is  out  there.  I  know  where  to 
find  him  when  it  is  dark.  I  will  make  up  a  pack  and  within 
an  hour  we  must  go.  If  Hauck  comes  to  your  room  before 
then,  or  Brokaw,  kill  him  with  the  knife,  Sakewawin!  If 
you  don't — ^they  will  kill  you!" 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  gasp  that  was  Hke  a  sob.  He 
struggled  to  rise;  stood  swaying  before  her,  his  legs  un- 
steady as  stilts  under  him. 

"My  gun.  Marge — my  pistol!"  he  demanded,  trying  to 
reach  out  his  arms.     "If  I  had  them  now     .     .     ." 

"They  must  have  taken  them,"  she  interrupted.  "But 
I  have  Nisikoos'  rifle,  Sakewavdn!    Oh — I  must  hurry! 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     275 

They  won't  come  to  my  room,  and  Marcee  is  perhaps  dead. 
As  soon  as  it  is  dark  I  will  imlock  your  door.  And  if  one  of 
them  comes  before  then,  you  must  kill  him!  You  must! 
You  must!" 

She  backed  to  the  door,  and  now  she  opened  it,  and  was 
gone.  A  key  clicked  in  the  lock  again,  he  heard  her  swift 
footsteps  in  the  hall,  and  a  second  door  opened  and  closed. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  stood  without  moving,  a  little 
dazed  by  the  suddenness  with  which  she  had  left  him. 
She  had  not  been  in  his  room  more  than  a  minute  or  two. 
She  had  been  terribly  frightened,  terribly  afraid  of  dis- 
covery before  her  work  was  done.  On  the  floor  at  his  feet 
lay  the  knife.  Thai  was  why  she  had  come,  that  was  what 
she  had  brought  him!  His  blood  began  to  tingle.  He 
could  feel  it  resuming  its  course  through  his  numbed  legs 
^nd  arms,  and  he  leaned  over  slowly,  half  afraid  that  he 
would  lose  his  balance,  and  picked  up  the  weapon.  The 
chanting  of  Wapi  and  his  people  was  only  a  distant  mur- 
mur; through  the  high  window  came  the  sound  of  returning 
voices — voices  of  white  men. 

There  swept  through  him  the  wild  thrill  of  the  thought 
that  once  more  the  fight  was  up  to  him.  Marge  0*Doone 
had  done  her  part.  She  had  struck  down  the  Indian 
woman  Hauck  had  placed  over  her  as  a  guard — ^had  escaped 
from  her  room,  unbound  him,  and  put  a  knife  into  his 
hands.  The  rest  was  his  fight.  How  long  before  Brokaw 
or  Hauck  would  come?  Would  they  give  him  time  to  get 
the  blood  running  through  his  body  again?  Time  to  gain 
strength  to  use  his  freedom — and  the  knife?  He  began 
walking  slowly  across  the  room,  pumping  his  arms  up  and 
down.     His  strength  returned  quickly.     He  went  to  the 


276     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

pail  of  water  and  drank  deeply  with  a  consuming  thirst. 
The  water  refreshed  him,  and  he  paced  back  and  foitb 
more  and  more  swiftly,  mitil  he  was  breathing  steadily  and 
he  could  harden  his  muscles  and  knot  his  fists.  He  looked 
at  the  knife.  It  was  a  horrible  necessity — the  burying  of  that 
steel  in  a  man's  back,  or  his  heart!  Was  there  no  other 
way,  he  wondered?  He  began  searching  the  room.  Why 
hadn't  Marge  brought  him  a  club  instead  of  a  knife,  or  at 
least  a  club  along  with  the  knife?  To  club  a  man  doT^Ti,; 
even  when  he  was  intent  on  murder,  wasn't  like  letting  out 
his  life  in  a  gush  of  blood. 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  table,  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
turned  it  over  and  was  wrenching  at  one  of  the  woodec 
legs.  It  broke  off  with  a  sharp  snap,  and  he  held  in  hi^ 
hand  a  weapon  possessing  many  advantages  over  the  knife 
The  latter  he  thrust  into  his  belt  with  the  handle  just  back 
of  his  hip.     Then  he  waited. 

It  was  not  for  long.  The  western  mountains  had  shut 
out  the  last  reflections  of  the  sun.  Gloom  was  beginning 
to  fill  his  room,  and  he  numbered  the  minutes  as  he  stood 
with  his  ear  close  to  the  door,  Ustening  for  a  step,  hopeful 
that  it  would  be  the  Girl's  and  not  Hauck's  or  Brokaw's. 
At  last  the  step  came,  advancing  from  the  end  of  the  halL 
It  was  a  heavy  step,  and  he  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
gripped  the  club.  His  heart  gave  a  sudden,  mighty  throb 
as  the  step  stopped  at  his  door.  It  was  not  pleasant  to 
think  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  and  yet  he  realized,  as 
ixe  heard  the  key  in  the  lock,  that  it  was  a  grim  and 
terrible  necessity.  He  was  thankful  there  was  only  one. 
He  would  not  strike  too  hard — ^not  in  this  cowardly  way — 
from  ambush.     Just  enough  to  do  the  business  sufficiently 


THE  COUIUGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     277 

well.  It  would  be  easy — quite.  He  raised  his  club  in  the 
thickening  dusk,  and  held  his  breath. 

The  door  opened,  and  Hauck  entered,  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  David.  Horrible!  Strike  a  man  like  that — 
and  with  a  club!  If  he  could  use  his  hands,  choke  him, 
give  him  at  least  a  quarter  chance.  But  it  had  to  be  done. 
It  was  a  sickening  thing.  Hauck  went  down  without  a 
groan — so  silently,  so  lifelessly  that  David  thought  he  had 
killed  him.  He  knelt  beside  him  for  a  few  seconds  and 
made  sure  that  his  heart  was  beating  before  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  looked  out  into  the  hall.  The  lamps  had  not 
been  lighted — probably  that  was  one  of  the  old  Indian 
woman's  duties.  From  the  big  room  came  a  sound  of 
voices — ^and  then,  close  to  him,  from  the  door  across  the 
way,  there  came  a  small  trembling  voice: 

"Hurry,  Sakewavnn!    Lock  the  door — and  come!" 

For  another  instant  he  dropped  on  his  knees  at  Hauck's 
aide.  Yes  it  was  there — ^in  his  pocket — a.  revolver!  He 
possessed  himself  of  the  weapon  with  an  exclamation  of 
joy,  locked  the  door,  and  ran  across  the  hall.  The  Girl 
opened  her  door  for  him,  and  closed  it  behind  him  as  he 
sprang  into  her  room.  The  first  object  he  noticed  was  the 
Indian  woman.  She  was  lying  on  a  cot,  and  her  black 
eyes  were  levelled  at  them  Uke  the  eyes  of  a  snake.  She 
was  trussed  up  so  securely,  and  was  gagged  so  thorough- 
ly that  he  could  not  restrain  a  laugh  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"Splendid!"  he  cried  softly.  "You're  a  httle  brick. 
Marge — ^you  surely  are!    And  now — what?" 

With  his  revolver  in  his  hand,  and  the  Girl  trembling 
under  his  arm,  he  felt  a  ridiculous  desire  to  shout  out  at 
the  top  of  his  voice  to  his  enemies  letting  them  know  that 


278     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

lie  was  again  ready  to  fight.  In  the  gloom  the  Girl's  eyes 
shone  hke  stars. 

"Who — was  it?"  she  whispered. 

"Hauck." 

"Then  it  was  Brokaw  who  went  with  Wapi.  Langdon 
and  Henry  went  with  him.  It  is  less  than  two  miles  to 
the  lake,  and  they  will  be  returning  soon.  We  must  hurry ! 
Look — ^it  is  growing  dark!" 

She  ran  from  his  arms  to  the  window  and  he  followed 
her. 

"In — ^fifteen  minutes — ^we  will  go,  Sakewamru  Tara 
is  out  there  in  the  edge  of  the  spruce."  Her  hand  pinched 
his  arm.     "Did  you — kill  him.'^"  she  breathed. 

"No.  I  broke  off  a  leg  from  the  table  and  stunned 
him." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said,  and  snuggled  close  to  him  shiver- 
ingly.     "I'm  glad,  Sakewaiuin" 

In  the  darkness  that  was  gathering  about  them  it  was 
impossible  for  him  not  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  He  held 
her  close,  bowing  his  head  so  that  for  an  instant  her  warm 
face  touched  his  own;  and  in  those  moments  while  they 
waited  for  the  gloom  to  thicken  he  told  her  in  a  low  voice 
what  he  had  learned  from  Brokaw.  She  grew  tense  against 
him  as  he  continued,  and  when  he  assured  her  he  no  longer 
had  a  doubt  her  mother  was  aUve,  and  that  she  was  the 
woman  he  had  met  on  the  coach,  a  cry  rose  out  of  her 
breast.  She  was  about  to  speak  when  loud  footsteps  in  the 
hall  made  her  catch  her  breath,  and  her  fingers  clung  more 
tightly  at  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  time,"  she  whispered.     "We  must  go!" 

She  ran  from  him  quickly  and  from  under  the  cot  where 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     279 

the  Indian  lay  dragged  forth  a  pack.  He  could  not  see 
plainly  what  she  was  doing  now.  In  a  moment  she  had 
put  a  rifle  in  his  hands. 

"It  belonged  to  Nisikoos,"  she  said.  "There  are  six 
shots  in  it,  and  here  are  all  the  cartridges  I  have." 

He  took  them  in  his  hand  and  counted  them  as  he 
dropped  them  into  his  pocket.  There  were  eleven  in  all, 
including  the  six  in  the  chamber.  "Thirty-twos,"  he 
thought,  as  he  seized  them  up  with  his  fingers.  "Good 
for  partridges — and  short  range  at  men!"  He  said, 
aloud:    "If  we  could  get  my  rifle.  Marge    .     .     ." 

"They  have  taken  it,"  she  told  him  again.  "But  we 
shall  not  need  it.  Salcewatvin,"  she  added,  as  if  his  voice 
had  revealed  to  her  the  thought  in  his  mind;  "I  know  of  a 
mountain  that  is  all  rock — not  so  far  off  as  the  one  Tara 
and  I  climbed — and  if  we  can  reach  that  they  will  not  be 
able  to  trail  us.     If  they  should  find  us     .     .     ." 

She  was  opening  the  window. 

"What  then?"  he  asked. 

"Nisikoos  once  killed  a  bear  with  that  gun,"  she  replied. 

The  window  was  open,  and  she  was  waiting.  They 
thrust  out  their  heads  and  listened,  and  when  he  had  as- 
sured himseK  that  all  was  clear  he  dropped  out  the  pack. 
He  lifted  Marge  down  then  and  followed  her.  As  his  feet 
struck  the  ground  the  slight  shock  sent  a  pain  through  his 
head  that  wrung  a  low  cry  from  him,  and  for  a  moment  he 
leaned  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  almost  overcome 
again  by  the  sickening  dizziness.  It  was  not  so  dark  that 
the  Girl  did  not  see  the  sudden  change  in  him.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  alarm. 

"A  little  dizzy,"  he  explained,  trying  to  smile  at  her. 


280     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"They  gave  me  a  pretty  hard  crack  on  the  head.  Marge. 
This  air  will  set  me  right — soon." 

He  picked  up  the  pack  and  followed  her.  In  the  edge  of 
the  spruce  a  hundred  yards  from  the  Nest,  Tara  had  been 
lying  all  the  afternoon,  nursing  his  wounds. 

"I  could  see  him  from  my  window,"  whispered  Marge. 

She  went  straight  to  him  and  began  talking  to  him  in  a 
low  voice.  Out  of  the  darkness  behind  Tara  came  a 
growl. 

"Baree,  by  thunder!"  muttered  David  in  amazement. 
"He's  made  up  with  the  bear,  Marge !  What  do  you  thinlf 
of  that?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Baree  came  to  him  and  flat- 
tened himself  at  his  feet.     David  laid  a  hand  on  his  head. 

"Boy!"  he  whispered  softly.  "And  they  said  you  were 
an  outlaw,  and  would  join  the  wolves    .     .     ." 

He  saw  the  dark  bulk  of  Tara  rising  out  of  the  gloom, 
and  the  Girl  was  at  his  side. 

"We  are  ready,  Sakewavnn." 

He  spoke  to  her  the  thought  that  had  been  shaping 
itself  in  his  mind. 

"Why  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  join  Wapi  and  hi? 
Indians?"  he  asked,  remembering  Brokaw's  words. 

"Because — they  are  afraid  of  Hauck,"  she  replied 
quickly.  "There  is  but  one  way,  Sahewaimn — ^to  follow  a 
narrow  trail  Tara  and  I  have  made,  close  to  the  foot  of  the 
range,  until  we  come  to  the  rock  mountain.  Shall  we  risk 
the  bundle  on  Tara's  back?" 

"It  is  Kght.     I  will  carry  it." 

"Then  give  me  your  hand,  Sakewamn,** 

There  was  again  in  her  voice  the  joyous  thrill  of  freedom 


THE  COUKAGE  OF  MAEGE  0  DOONE  281 

and  of  confidence;  he  could  hear  for  a  moment  the  wild 
throb  of  her  heart  in  its  exultation  at  their  escape,  and  with 
her  warm  httle  hand  she  gripped  his  fingers  firmly  and 
guided  him  into  a  sea  of  darkness.  The  forest  shut  them 
in.  Not  a  ray  fell  upon  them  from  out  of  the  pale  sky 
wh^e  the  stars  were  beginning  to  gUmmer  faintly.  Be- 
hind them  he  could  hear  the  heavy,  padded  footfall  of  the 
big  grizzly,  and  he  knew  that  Baree  was  very  near.  After 
a  Uttle  the  Girl  said,  still  in  a  whisper: 

"Does  your  head  hurt  you  now,  Sdkewawin  ?*' 

"A  bit." 

The  trail  was  widening.  It  was  quite  smooth  for  a 
space,  but  black. 

She  pressed  his  fingers. 

"I  beheve  all  you  have  told  me,"  she  said,  as  if  making 
a  confession.  "  After  you  came  to  me  in  the  cage — ^and  the 
fight — I  believed.  You  must  have  loved  me  a  great  deal 
to  risk  aU  that  for  me." 

"Yes,  a  great  deal,  my  child,"  he  answered. 

Why  did  that  dizziness  persist  in  his  head,  he  wondered? 
For  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  he  were  falling. 

"A  very  great  deal,"  he  added,  trying  to  walk  steadily 
at  her  side,  his  own  voice  sounding  unreal  and  at  a  great 
distance  from  him.  "You  see — my  child — I  didn't  have 
anything  to  love  but  your  picture     .     .     ." 

What  a  fool  he  was  to  try  and  make  himself  heard 
above  the  roaring  in  his  head!  His  words  seemed  to  him 
whispers  coming  across  a  great  space.  And  the  bundle  on 
his  shoulders  was  like  a  crushing  weight  bearing  him  down! 
The  voice  at  his  side  was  growing  fainter.  It  was  saying 
things  which  afterward  he  could  not  remember,  but  he 


282     THE  COURAGE  OF  IMARGE  O'DOONE 

knew  that  it  was  talking  about  the  woman  he  had  said  was 
her  mother,  and  that  he  was  answering  it  while  weights  of 
lead  were  dragging  at  his  feet.  Then  suddenly,  he  had 
stepped  over  the  edge  of  the  world  and  was  floating  in  that 
vast,  black  chaos  again.  The  voice  did  not  leave  him. 
He  could  hear  it  sobbing,  entreating  him,  urging  him  to  do 
something  which  he  could  not  understand;  and  when  at 
last  he  did  begin  to  comprehend  it  he  knew  also  that  he  was 
no  longer  walking  with  weights  at  his  feet  and  a  burden  on 
his  shoulders,  but  was  on  the  ground.  His  head  was  on 
her  breast,  and  she  was  no  longer  speaking  to  him,  but  was 
crying  Hke  a  child  with  a  heart  utterly  broken.  The 
deathly  sickness  was  gone  as  quickly  as  it  had  stricken 
him,  and  he  struggled  upward,  with  her  arms  helping  him. 

"You  are  hurt — ^hurt — "  he  heard  her  moaning.  "If  I 
can  only  get  you  on  Tara,  Sahewavdn,  on  Tara's  back — ■ 
there — ^astep  .  .  ."  and  he  knew  that  was  what  she  had 
been  saying  over  and  over  again,  urging  him  to  help  him- 
self if  he  could,  so  that  she  could  get  him  to  Tara.  He 
reached  out  his  hand  and  buried  it  in  the  thick  hair  of  the 
grizzly,  and  he  tried  to  speak  laughingly  so  that  she  would 
not  know  his  fears. 

"One  is  often  dizzy — ^like  that — after  a  blow,"  he  said, 
"I  guess — I  can  walk  now." 

"No,  no,  you  must  ride  Tara,"  she  insisted.  "You  are 
hurt — and  you  must  ride  Tara,  SaJcewaioin,    You  must!" 

She  was  lifting  at  his  arms  with  all  her  strength,  her 
breath  hot  and  panting  in  his  face,  and  Tara  stood  without 
moving  a  muscle  of  his  giant  body,  as  if  he,  too,  were  urging 
upon  him  in  this  dumb  manner  the  necessity  of  obeying 
bis  mistress.    Even  then  David  would  have  remonstrated 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     283 

but  he  felt  once  more  that  appaUing  sickness  creeping  over 
him,  and  he  raised  himself  slowly  astride  the  grizzly's 
broad  back.  The  Girl  picked  up  the  bundle  and  rifle  and 
Tara  followed  her  through  the  darkness.  To  David  the 
beast's  great  back  seemed  a  wonderfully  safe  and  com- 
fortable place,  and  he  leaned  forward  with  his  fingers 
clutched  deeply  in  the  long  hair  of  the  ruff  about  the  bear's 
bulking  shoulders. 

The  Girl  called  back  to  him  softly: 

"You  are  all  right,  Sakewawin  .^" 

"Yes,  it  is  so  comfortable  that  I  feel  I  may  fall  asleep," 
he  replied. 

Out  in  the  starlight  she  would  have  seen  his  drooping 
head,  and  his  words  would  have  had  a  different  meaning  for 
her.  He  was  fighting  with  himself  desperately,  and  in  his 
heart  was  a  great  fear.  He  must  be  badly  hurt,  he  thought. 
There  came  to  him  a  distorted  but  vivid  vision  of  an 
Indian  hurt  in  the  head,  whom  he  and  Father  Roland  had 
tried  to  save.  Without  a  surgeon  it  had  been  impossible. 
The  Indian  had  died,  and  he  had  had  those  same  spells  of 
sickness,  the  sickness  that  was  creeping  over  him  again  in 
spite  of  his  efforts  to  fight  it  off.  He  had  no  very  clear 
notion  of  the  movement  of  Tara's  body  under  him,  but  he 
knew  that  he  was  holding  on  grimly,  and  that  every  little 
while  the  Girl  called  back  to  him,  and  he  replied.  Then 
came  the  time  when  he  failed  to  answer,  and  for  a  space 
the  rocking  motion  under  him  ceased  and  the  Girl's  voice 
was  very  near  to  him.  Afterward  motion  resimied.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  travelling  a  great  distance. 
Altogether  too  far  without  a  halt  for  sleep,  or  at 
least  a  rest.    He  was  conscious  of  a  dbsire  to  voice  pro- 


284     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

test — and  all  the  time  his  fingers  were  clasped  in  Tara's 
mane  in  a  sort  of  death  grip. 

In  her  breast  Marge's  heart  was  beating  Hke  a  hunted 
thing,  and  over  and  over  again  she  sobbed  out  a  broken 
prayer  as  she  guided  Tara  and  his  burden  through  the 
night.  From  the  forest  into  the  starlit  open;  from  the 
open  into  the  thick  gloom  of  forest  again — into  and  out  of 
starhght  and  darkness,  following  that  trail  down  the  valley. 
She  was  no  longer  thinking  of  the  rock  mountain,  for  it 
would  be  impossible  now  to  cUmb  over  the  range  into  the 
other  valley.  She  was  heading  for  a  cabin.  An  old  and 
abandoned  cabin,  where  they  could  hide.  She  tried  to 
tell  David  about  it,  many  days  after  they  had  begun  that 
journey  it  seemed  to  him. 

"Only  a  little  longer,  Sakewawiriy^  she  cried,  with  her 
arm  about  him  and  her  hps  close  to  his  bent  head.  "  Only 
a  little  longer!  They  will  not  think  to  search  for  us  there, 
and  you  can  sleep — sleep     .     .     ." 

Her  voice  drifted  away  from  him  Uke  a  low  mm*mur  in 
the  tree  tops — and  his  fingers  still  clung  in  that  death-grip 
in  the  mane  at  Tara's  neck. 

And  still  many  other  days  later  they  came  to  the  cabin. 
It  was  amazing  to  him  that  the  Girl  should  say: 

"We  are  only  five  miles  from  the  Nest,  Sakewavdn,  but 
they  will  not  hunt  for  us  here.  They  will  think  we  have 
gone  farther — or  over  the  mountains!" 

She  was  putting  cold  water  to  his  face,  and  now  that 
there  was  no  longer  the  rolling  motion  under  him  he  was 
not  quite  so  dizzy.  She  had  unrolled  the  bundle  and  had 
spread  out  a  blanket,  and  when  he  stretched  himself  out  on 
this  a  sense  of  vast  relief  came  over  him.    In  his  confused 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'BOONE     ^5 

consciousness  two  or  three  things  stood  out  with  rather 
odd  clearness  before  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  last  was  a 
vision  of  the  Girl's  face  bending  over  him,  and  of  her  starry 
eyes  loddng  down  at  him,  and  of  her  voice  urging  him 
gently: 

"Try  to  sleep,  SaJcewaioin — ^try  to  sleep  .  .  .'* 
It  was  many  hours  later  when  he  awoke.  Hands  seemed 
to  be  dragging  him  forcibly  out  of  a  place  in  which  he 
was  very  comfortable,  and  which  he  did  not  want  to  leave, 
and  a  voice  was  accompanying  the  hands  with  an  annoying 
insistency — a  voice  which  was  growing  more  and  more 
faimliar  to  him  as  his  sleeping  senses  were  roused.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  It  was  day,  and  Marge  was  on  her  knees 
at  his  side,  tugging  at  his  breast  with  her  hands  and  staring 
wildly  into  his  face. 

"Wake,  SaJcewamn — wake,  wake!"  he  heard  her  crying. 
"Oh,  my  God,  you  must  wake!  Sahewawin — Sdkewawin 
— they  have  found  our  trail — and  I  can  see  them  coming 
up  the  valley!" 


CHAPTEE  XXVI 

SCARCELY  had  David  sensed  the  Girl's  words  of 
warning  than  he  was  on  his  feet.  And  now,  when 
he  s^w  her,  he  thanked  God  that  his  head  was  clear, 
and  that  he  could  fight.  Even  yesterday,  when  she  had 
stood  before  the  fighting  bears,  and  he  had  fought  Brokaw, 
she  had  not  been  whiter  than  she  was  now.  Her  face  told 
him  of  their  danger  before  he  had  seen  it  with  his  owr 
eyes.  It  told  him  that  their  peril  was  appallingly  near 
and  there  was  no  chance  of  escaping  it.  He  saw  for  the 
first  time  that  his  bed  on  the  ground  had  been  close  to  the 
wall  of  an  old  cabin  which  was  in  a  Httle  dip  in  the  sloping 
face  of  the  moimtain.  Before  he  could  take  in  more,  or 
discover  a  visible  sign  of  their  enemies.  Marge  had  caught 
his  hand  and  was  drawing  him  to  the  end  of  the  shack. 
She  did  not  speak  as  she  pointed  downward.  In  the  edge 
of  the  vaUeyj  just  beginning  the  ascent,  were  eight  or  ten 
meUo  He  could  not  determine  their  exact  number  for  as 
he  looked  they  were  already  disappearing  under  the  face 
of  the  lower  dip  in  the  mountain.  They  were  not  more 
than  four  or  five  hundred  yards  away.  It  would  take 
them  a  matter  of  twenty  minutes  to  make  the  ascent  to  the 
cabin. 

He  looked  at  Marge.  Despairingly  she  pointed  to  the 
mountain  behind  them.  For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  it  was  a 
sheer  wall  of  red  sandstone.    Their  one  way  of  flight 

286 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     287 

lay  downward,  practically  into  the  faces  of  their  en- 
emies. 

"I  was  going  to  rouse  you  before  it  was  light,  Sake- 
toavdn"  she  etplained  in  a  voice  that  was  dead  with  hope- 
lessness. "lAept  awake  for  hours,  and  then  I  fell  asleep. 
Baree  awakened  me,  and  now — it  is  too  late." 

"Yes,  too  late  to  run  /"  said  David. 

A  flash  of  fire  leaped  into  her  eyes. 

"You  mean     ..." 

"We  can  fight!"  he  cried.  "Good  God,  Marge— if 
only  I  had  my  own  rifle  now!"  He  thrust  a  hand  into 
his  pocket  and  drew  forth  the  cartridges  she  had  given 
him.  "Thirty-twos!  And  only  eleven  of  them!  It's  got 
to  be  a  short  range  for  us.  We  can't  put  up  a  running 
fight  for  they'd  keep  out  of  range  of  this  Httle  pea-shooter 
and  fill  me  as  full  of  holes  as  a  sieve ! " 

She  was  tugging  at  his  arm. 

"The  cabin,  Sakewaidn  !"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden 
irspiration.  "It  has  a  strong  bar  at  the  door,  and  the 
clay  has  fallen  in  places  from  between  the  logs  leaving 
openings  through  which  you  can  shoot!" 

He  was  examining  Nisikoos'  rifle. 

"At  150  yards  it  should  be  good  for  a  man,"  he  said. 
"You  get  Tara  and  the  pack  inside.  Marge.  I'm  going  to 
try  to  get  two  or  three  of  our  friends  as  they  come  up  ove^ 
the  knoll  down  there.  They  won't  be  looking  for  bullets 
thus  early  in  the  game  and  I'll  have  them  at  a  disadvantage. 
If  I'm  lucky  enough  to  get  Hauck  and  Brokaw     .     .     ." 

His  eyes  had  selected  a  big  rock  twenty  yards  from  the 
cabin  from  which  he  could  overlook  the  slope  to  the  first 
dip  below  them,  and  as  Marge  darted  from  him  to  get 


^88     THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Tara  into  the  cabin  he  crouched  behind  the  boulder  and 
waited.  He  figured  that  it  was  not  more  than  150  yards  to 
the  point  where  their  pursuers  would  first  appear,  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  wait  imtil  they  were 
nearer  than  that  before  he  opened  fire.  Not  one  of  those 
eleven  precious  cartridges  must  be  wasted,  for  he  could 
count  on  Hauck's  revolver  only  at  close  quarters.  It  was 
no  longer  a  time  for  doubt  or  indecision.  Brokaw  and 
Hauck  were  dehberately  pushing  the  fight  to  a  finish,  and 
not  to  beat  them  meant  death  for  himself  and  a  fate  for 
the  Girl  which  made  him  grip  his  rifle  more  tightly  as  he 
waited.  He  looked  behind  him  and  saw  Marge  leading 
Tara  into  the  cabin.  Baree  had  crept  up  beside  htm  and 
lay  flat  on  the  ground  close  to  the  rock.  A  moment  or  two 
later  the  Girl  reappeared  and  ran  across  the  narrow  open 
space  to  David,  and  crouched  down  close  to  him. 

"You  must  go  into  the  cabin,  Marge,"  he  remonstrated. 
"They  will  probably  begin  shooting     .     .     ." 

"I*m  going  to  stay  with  you,  Sakewamn." 

Her  face  was  no  longer  white.  A  flush  had  risen  into 
her  cheeks,  her  eyes  shone  as  she  looked  at  him — and  she 
smiled.  A  child!  His  heart  rose  chokingly  in  his  throat. 
Her  face  was  close  to  his,  and  she  whispered, 

"Last  night  I  kissed  you,  Sakewawin.  I  thought  you 
were  dying.  Before  you,  I  have  kissed  Nisikoos.  Never 
any  one  else." 

Why  did  she  say  that,  with  that  wonderful  glow  in  her 
eyes?  Couldn't  be  that  she  saw  death  climbing  up  the 
mountain.^  Was  it  because  she  wanted  him  to  know — 
before  that?    A  child! 

She  whispered  again: 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     289 

•^ And  you — ^have  never  kissed  me,  Sdkewawin,    Why?  " 

Slowly  he  drew  her  to  him,  until  her  head  lay  against 
his  breast,  her  shining  eyes  and  parted  lips  turned  up  to 
him,  and  he  kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  A  wild  flood  of 
colour  rushed  into  her  face  and  her  arms  crept  up  about 
his  shoulders.  The  glory  of  her  radiant  hair  covered  his 
breast.  He  buried  his  face  in  it,  and  for  a  moment  crushed 
her  so  close  that  she  did  not  breathe.  And  then  again  he 
kissed  her  mouth,  not  once  but  a  dozen  times,  and  then 
held  her  back  from  him  and  looked  into  her  face  that  was 
no  longer  the  face  of  a  child,  but  of  a  woman. 

"'Because     .     .     ."  he  began,  and  stopped. 

fJaree  was  growUng.     David  peered  down  the  slope. 

""They  are  coming! "  he  said.  "Marge,  you  must  creep 
back  to  the  cabin!" 

"*!  am  going  to  stay  with  you,  Sakewawin.  See,  I  will 
flatten  myself  out  hke  this — with  Baree." 

She  snuggled  herself  down  against  the  rock  and  again 
David  peered  from  his  ambush.  Their  pursuers  were  well 
over  the  crest  of  the  dip,  and  he  counted  nine.  They  were 
advancing  in  a  group  and  he  saw  that  both  Hauck  and 
Brokaw  were  in  the  rear  and  that  they  were  using  staffs 
in  their  toil  upward,  and  did  not  carry  rifles.  The  re- 
maining seven  were  armed,  and  were  headed  by  Langdon, 
who  was  fifteen  or  twenty  yards  in  advance  of  his  com- 
panions. David  made  up  his  mind  quickly  to  take  Lang- 
don  first,  and  to  follow  up  with  others  who  carried  rifles. 
Hauck  and  Brokaw,  unarmed  with  guns,  were  least  dan- 
gerous just  at  present.  He  would  get  Brokaw  with  his 
fifth  shot — the  sixth  if  he  made  a  miss  with  the  fifth. 

A  thin  strip  of  shale  marked  his  100-yard  dead-line,  and 


290     THE  COUEAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

the  instant  Langdon  set  his  foot  on  this  David  fired. 
He  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  yell  of  defiance  that  rang 
from  his  hps  as  Langdon  whirled  in  his  tracks  and  pitched 
down  among  the  men  behind  him.  He  rose  up  boldly 
from  behind  the  rock  and  fired  again.  In  that  huddled 
and  astonished  mass  he  could  not  miss.  A  shriek  came 
up  to  him.  He  fired  a  third  time,  and  he  heard  a  joyous 
cry  of  triumph  beside  him  as  their  enemies  rushed  for 
safety  toward  the  dip  from  which  they  had  just  chmbed, 
A  fourth  shot,  and  he  picked  out  Brokaw.  Twice  he 
missed!  His  gun  was  empty  when  Brokaw  lunged  out  of 
view.  Langdon  remained  an  inanimate  blotch  on  the 
strip  of  shale.  A  few  steps  below  him  was  a  second  body. 
A  third  man  was  dragging  himseK  on  hands  and  knees  over 
the  crest  of  the  coulee.  Three — ^with  six  shots!  And  he 
liad  missed  Brokaw!  Liwardly  David  groaned  as  he 
caught  the  Girl  by  the  arm  and  hurried  with  her  into  the 
cabin,  followed  by  Baree. 

They  were  not  a  moment  too  soon.  From  over  the  edge 
of  the  coulee  came  a  fusillade  of  shots  from  the  heavy- 
cahbre  weapons  of  the  mountain  men  that  sent  out  sparks 
of  fire  from  the  rock. 

As  he  thrust  the  remaining  five  cartridges  into  the  cham- 
ber of  Nisikoos*  rifle,  David  looked  about  the  cabin.  In 
one  of  the  farther  corners  the  huge  grizzly  sat  on  hi^ 
quarters  as  motionless  as  if  stuffed.  In  the  centre  of  the 
single  room  was  an  old  box  stove  partly  fallen  to  pieces. 
That  was  all.  Marge  had  dropped  the  sapling  bar  across 
the  door,  and  stood  with  her  back  against  it.  There  was 
no  window,  and  the  closing  of  the  door  had  shut  out  most 
of  the  light.    He  could  see  that  she  was  breathing  quickly. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     291 

and  the  wonderful  light  that  had  come  into  her  eyes  behind 
the  rock  was  still  glowing  at  him  in  the  half  gloom.  It  gave 
him  fresh  confidence  to  see  her  standing  like  that,  looking 
at  him  in  that  way,  telling  him  without  words  that  a  thing 
had  come  into  her  life  which  had  lifted  her  above  fear. 
He  went  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  and  again 
he  kissed  her  sweet  mouth,  and  felt  her  heart  beating 
against  him,  and  the  warm  thrill  of  her  arms  clinging  to 
him. 

A  splintering  crash  sent  him  reeUngfback  into  the 
centre  of  the  cabin  with  Marge  in  his  arms.  The  crash 
had  come  simultaneously  with  the  report  of  a  rifle,  and 
both  saw  where  the  bullet  had  passed  through  the  door 
six  inches  above  David's  head,  carrying  a  splinter  as  large 
as  his  arm  with  it.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  door. 
It  was  the  cabin's  vulnerable  point,  and  he  sprang  out 
of  line  with  it  as  a  second  bullet  crashed  through  and 
buried  itself  in  the  log  wall  at  their  backs.  Baree  growled. 
A  low  rumble  rose  in  Tara's  throat,  but  he  did  not  move. 

In  each  of  the  f  oiu*  log  walls  were  the  open  chinks  which 
Marge  had  tald  him  about,  and  he  sprang  to  one  of  these 
apertures  that  was  wide  enough  to  let  the  barrel  of  his 
rifle  through  and  looked  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
two  shots  had  come.  He  was  in  time  to  catch  a  movement 
among  the  rocks  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  about  two 
hundred  yards  away,  and  a  third  shot  tore  its  way  through 
the  door,  glanced  from  the  steel  top  of  the  stove,  and  struck 
like  a  club  two  feet  over  Tara's  back.  There  were  two 
men  up  there  among  the  rocks,  and  their  first  shots  were 
followed  by  a  steady  bombardment  that  fairly  riddled  the 
door.    David  could  see  their  heads  and  shoulders  and 


292     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

the  gleam  and  faint  puffs  of  their  rifles,  but  he  held  his 
fire.  Where  were  the  other  four,  he  wondered?  Without 
doubt  Hauck  and  Brokaw  were  now  armed  with  the  rifles 
of  the  men  who  had  fallen,  so  he  had  six  to  deal  with. 
Cautiously  he  thrust  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  through  the 
crack,  and  watched  his  chance,  aiming  a  foot  and  a  half 
above  the  spot  where  a  j>air  of  shoulders  and  a  head  would 
appear  in  a  moment.  His  chance  came,  and  he  fired. 
The  head  and  shoulders  disappeared,  and  exultantly  he 
swung  his  rifle  a  Httle  to  the  right  and  sent  another  shot 
as  the  second  man  exposed  himself.  He,  too,  disappeared, 
and  David's  heart  was  thumping  wildly  in  the  thought  that 
his  bullets  had  reached  their  marks  when  both  heads  ap- 
j>eared  again  and  a  hail  of  lead  spattered  against  the  cabin. 
The  men  among  the  rocks  were  no  longer  aiming  at  the 
door,  but  at  the  spot  from  which  he  had  fired,  and  a  bullet 
ripped  through  so  close  that  a  spHnter  stung  his  face,  and 
he  felt  the  quick  warm  flow  of  blood  down  his  cheek. 
When  the  Girl  saw  it  her  face  went  as  white  as  death. 

"I  can't  get  them  with  this  rifle.  Marge,"  he  groaned 
"It's  wild— wild  as  a  hawk!    Good  God!     .     .     ." 

A  crash  of  fire  had  come  from  behind  the  cabin,  and 
another  bullet,  finding  one  of  the  gaping  cracks,  passed 
between  them  with  a  sound  like  the  buzz  of  a  monster 
bee.  With  a  sudden  cry  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and 
held  her  tight,  as  if  in  his  embrace  he  would  shield  her. 

"Is  it  possible — they  would  kill  you  to  get  me?" 

He  loosed  his  hold  of  her,  sprang  to  the  broken  stove, 
and  began  dragging  it  out  of  the  line  of  fire  that  came 
through  the  door.  The  Girl  saw  his  peril  and  sprang  to 
help  him.     He  had  no  time  to  urge  her  back.     In  ten 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     293 

rSeconds  he  had  the  stove  close  to  the  wall,  and  almost 
forcibly  he  made  her  crouch  down  behind  it. 

"If  you  expose  yourself  for  one  second  I  swear  to 
Heaven  I'll  stand  up  there  against  the  door  until  I*m  shot ! " 
he  threatened.     **  I  will,  so  help  me  God !  '* 

His  brain  was  afire.  He  was  no  longer  cool  or  self- 
possessed.  He  was  blind  with  a  wild  rage,  with  a  mad 
desire  to  reach  in  some  way,  with  his  vengeance,  the  human 
beasts  who  were  bent  on  his  death  even  if  it  was  to  be 
gained  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  Girl.  He  rushed  to  the  side 
of  the  cabin  from  which  the  fresh  attack  had  come,  and 
glared  through  one  of  the  embrasures  between  the  logs. 
He  was  close  to  Tara,  and  he  heard  the  low,  steady  thunder 
that  came  out  of  the  grizzly's  chest.  His  enemies  were 
near  on  this  side.  Their  fire  came  from  the  rocks  not  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  all  at  once,  in  the  heat  of 
the  great  passion  that  possessed  him  now,  he  became 
suddenly  aware  that  they  knew  the  only  weapon  he  pos- 
sessed was  Nisikoos'  little  rifle — and  Hauck's  revolver. 
Probably  they  knew  also  how  limited  his  ammunition  was. 
And  they  were  exposing  themselves.  Why  should  he  save 
his  last  three  shots?  When  they  were  gone  and  he  no 
longer  answered  their  fire  they  would  rush  the  cabin,  beat 
in  the  door,  and  then — ^the  revolver!  With  that  he  would 
tear  out  their  hearts  as  they  entered.  He  saw  Hauck, 
fired  and  missed.  A  man  stood  up  within  seventy  yards 
of  the  cabin  a  moment  later,  firing  as  fast  as  he  could  pump 
the  lever  of  his  gun,  and  David  drove  one  of  Nisikoos' 
partridge-kniers  straight  into  his  chest.  He  fired  a  second 
time  at  Hauck — another  miss !  Then  he  flung  the  useless 
rifle  to  the  floor  as  he  sprang  back  to  !Marge. 


294     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  OT>OONE 

"Got  one.  Five  left.  Now — damn  'em — ^let  them 
eome!" 

He  drew  Hauck's  revolver.  A  bullet  flew  througli  one 
of  the  cracks,  and  they  heard  the  soft  thud  of  it  as  it 
struck  Tara.  The  growl  in  the  grizzly's  throat  burst 
forth  in  a  roar  of  thunder.  The  terrible  sound  shook  the 
cabin,  but  Tara  still  made  no  movement,  except  now  to 
swing  his  head  with  open,  drooUng  jaws.  In  response  to 
that  cry  oi  animal  rage  and  pain  a  snarl  had  come  from 
Baree.    He  had  slunk  close  to  Tara. 

"Didn't  hurt  him  much,*'  said  David,  with  the  fingers 
of  his  free  hand  crumpling  the  Girl's  hair.  "They'll  stop 
shooting  in  a  minute  or  two,  and  then     .     .     ." 

Straight  into  his  eyes  from  that  farther  waU  a  splinter 
hurled  itself  at  him  with  a  hissing  sound  like  the  plunge  of 
hot  iron  into  water.  He  had  a  lightning  inpression  of 
seeing  the  bullet  as  it  tore  through  the  clay  between  two  of 
the  logs;  he  knew  that  he  was  struck,  and  yet  he  felt  no 
pain.  His  mind  was  acutely  alive,  yet  he  could  not  speak. 
His  words  had  been  cut  oflP,  his  tongue  was  powerless — it 
was  like  a  shock  that  had  paralyzed  him.  Even  the  Girl 
did  not  know  for  a  moment  or  two  that  he  was  hit.  The 
thud  of  his  revolver  on  the  floor  filled  her  eyes  with  the 
first  horror  of  imderstanding,  and  she  sprang  to  his  side  as 
he  swayed  hke  a  drunken  man  toward  Tara.  He  sank 
down  on  the  floor  a  few  feet  from  the  grizzly,  and  he  heard 
the  Girl  moaning  over  him  and  calling  him  by  name.  The 
numbness  left  him,  slowly  he  raised  a  hand  to  his  chin, 
filled  with  a  terrible  fear.  It  was  there — his  jaw,  hard, 
unsmashed,  but  wet  with  blood.  He  thought  the  bullet 
had  struck  him  there. 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE      295 

"A  knockout,"  were  the  first  words,  spoken  slowly  and 
thickly,  but  witJi  a  great  gasp  of  rehef .  "A  splinter  hit  me 
on  the  jaw    .     .     .     I'm  all  right    .     .     .'* 

He  sat  up  dizzily,  with  the  Girl's  arm  about  him.  In 
the  three  or  four  minutes  of  forgetfulness  neither  had 
noticed  that  the  firing  had  ceased.  Now  there  came  a 
tremendous  blow  at  the  door.  It  shook  the  cabin.  A 
second  blow,  a  third — and  the  decaying  saplings  were 
cpashing  inward!  David  struggled  to  rise,  fell  back,  and 
pointed  to  the  revolver 

"Quick — the  revolver!" 

Marge  sprang  to  it.  The  door  crashed  inward  as  she 
picked  it  up,  and  scarcely  had  she  faced  about  when  their 
enemies  were  rushing  in,  with  Henry  and  Hauck  in  their 
lead,  and  Brokaw  just  behind  them.  With  a  last  effort 
David  fought  to  gain  his  feet.  He  heard  a  single  shot 
from  the  revolver,  and  then,  as  he  rose  staggeringly,  he  saw 
Marge  fighting  in  Brokaw's  arms.  Hauck  came  for  him, 
the  demon  of  murder  in  his  face,  and  as  they  went  down  he 
heard  scream  after  scream  come  from  the  Girl's  lips,  and  in 
that  scream  the  agonizing  call  of  "  Tara  !  Tara  !  Tara  /" 
Over  him  he  heard  a  sudden  roar,  the  rush  of  a  great 
body — and  with  that  thunder  of  Tara's  rage  and  vengeance 
there  mingled  a  hideous,  wolfish  snarl  from  Baree.  He 
could  see  nothing.     Hauck's  hands  were  at  his  throat. 

But  the  screams  continued,  and  above  them  came  now 
the  cries  of  men — cries  of  horror,  of  agony,  of  death;  and  as 
Hauck's  fingers  loosened  at  his  neck  he  heard  with  the 
snarling  and  roaring  and  tumult  the  crushing  of  great  jaws 
and  the  thud  of  bodies.  Hauck  was  rising,  his  face 
blanched  with  a  strange  terror.     He  was  half  up  when  a 


296     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

gaunt,  lithe  body  shot  at  him  Uke  a  stone  flung  from  a 
catapult  and  Baree's  inch-long  fangs  sank  into  his  thick 
throat  and  tore  his  head  haK  from  his  body  in  one  savage, 
snarling  snap  of  the  jaws.  David  raised  himself  and 
through  the  horror  of  what  he  saw  the  Girl  ran  to  him — 
unharmed — and  clasped  her  arms  about  him,  her  hps 
sobbing  all  the  time— "  Tara— ram— Tara  .  .  ."  He 
turned  her  face  to  his  breast,  and  held  it  there.  It  was 
ghastly.  Henry  was  dead.  Hauck  was  dead.  And  Bro- 
kaw  was  dead — a,  thousand  times  dead — ^with  the  grizzly 
tearing  his  huge  body  into  pieces. 

Through  that  pit  of  death  David  stumbled  with  the 
Girl.  The  fresh  air  struck  their  faces.  The  sun  of  day 
fell  upon  them.  The  green  grass  and  the  flowers  of  the 
mountain  were  under  their  feet.  They  looked  down  the 
slope,  and  saw,  disappearing  over  the  crest  of  the  covUe, 
two  men  who  were  running  for  their  lives. 


CHAPTER  XXVn 

IT  MAY  have  been  five  minutes  that  David  held  the 
Girl  in  his  arms,  staring  down  into  the  sunlit  valley 
into  which  the  last  two  of  Hauck's  men  had  fled,  and 
during  that  time  he  did  not  speak,  and  he  heard  only  her 
steady  sobbing.  He  drew  into  his  lungs  deep  breaths  of 
the  invigorating  air,  and  he  felt  himself  growing  stronger 
as  the  GirFs  body  became  heavier  in  his  embrace,  and  her 
arms  relaxed  and  slipped  down  from  his  shoulders.  He 
raised  her  face.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she 
was  still  moaning  a  little,  and  her  lips  were  quivering  Uke  a 
crying  child's.  He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  them,  and  she 
caught  her  breath  pantingly  as  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes 
which  were  limpid  pools  of  blue  out  of  which  her  terror  was 
slowly  dying  away.  She  whispered  his  name.  In  her 
look  and  in  that  whisper  there  was  unutterable  adoration. 
It  was  for  him  she  had  been  afraid.  She  was  looking  at 
him  now  as  one  saved  to  her  from  the  dead,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  strained  her  still  closer,  and  as  he  crushed  his  face 
to  hers  he  felt  the  warm,  sweet  caress  of  her  lips,  and  the 
thrilling  pressure  of  her  hands,  at  his  blood-stained  cheeks. 
A  sound  from  behind  made  him  turn  his  head,  and  fifty 
feet  away  he  saw  the  big  grizzly  ambling  cumbrously  from 
the  cabin.  They  could  hear  him  growling  as  he  stood  in 
the  sunshine,  his  head  swinging  slowly  from  side  to  side 
like  a  huge    pendulum — ^in  his  throat  the  last  echcdopf 

297 


298    THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

of  that  ferocious  rage  and  hate  that  had  destroyed  their 
enemies.  And  in  the  same  moment  Baree  stood  in  the 
doorway,  his  lips  drawn  back  and  his  fangs  gleaming,  as  if 
he  expected  other  enemies  to  face  him. 

Quickly  David  led  Marge  beyond  the  boulder  from  be* 
hind  which  he  had  opened  the  fight,  and  drew  her  down 
with  him  into  a  soft  carpet  of  grass,  thick  with  the  blue  of 
wild  violets,  with  the  big  rock  shutting  out  the  cabm  from 
their  vision. 

"Rest  here,  httle  comrade,"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and 
trembhng  with  his  worship  of  her,  hds  hands  stroking  back 
her  wonderful  hair.  "  I  mu^  return  to  the  cabin.  Then — 
we  will  go." 

"Go!" 

She  repeated  the  word  in  the  strangest,  softest  whisper  he 
had  ever  heard,  as  if  in  it  all  at  once  she  saw  the  sun  and 
stars,  the  day  and  night,  of  her  whole  life.  She  looked 
from  his  face  down  into  the  valley,  and  into  his  face 
again. 

"We — ^will  go,"  she  repeated,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

She  shivered  when  he  left  her,  shuddered  with  a  terrible 
little  cry  which  she  tried  to  choke  back  even  as  she  visioned 
the  first  glow  of  that  wonderful  new  Ufe  that  was  dawning 
for  her.  David  knew  why.  He  left  her  without  looking 
down  into  her  eyes  again,  anxious  to  have  these  last  terrible 
minutes  over.  At  the  open  door  of  the  cabin  he  hesitated, 
a  httle  sick  at  what  he  knew  he  would  see.  And  yet,  after 
all,  it  was  no  worse  than  it  should  be;  it  was  justice.  He 
told  himself  this  as  he  stepped  inside. 

He  tried  not  to  look  too  closely,  but  the  sight,  after  a 
moment,  fascinated  him.    If  it  had  not  been  for  the  differ- 


THE  GOUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     299 

eaace  in  their  size  he  could  not  have  told  which  was  Hauck 
and  which  was  Brokaw,  for  even  on  Hauck,  Tara  had 
vented  his  rage  after  Baree  had  killed  him.  Neither  bore 
very  much  the  semblance  of  a  man  just  now — ^it  seemed 
incredible  that  claw  and  fang  could  have  worked  such 
destruction,  and  he  went  suddenly  back  to  the  door  to  see 
that  the  Girl  was  not  following  him.  Then  he  looked 
again.  Henry  lay  at  his  feet  across  the  fallen  sapHngs  of 
the  battered  door,  his  head  twisted  completely  under  him — 
or  gone.  It  was  Henry's  rifle  he  picked  up.  He  searched 
for  cartridges  then.  It  was  a  sickening  task.  He  found 
nearly  fifty  of  them  on  the  three,  and  went  out  with  the 
pack  and  the  rifle.  He  put  the  pack  over  his  shoulders 
before  he  returned  to  the  rock,  and  paused  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, when  he  rejoined  the  Girl.  With  her  hand  in  his  he 
struck  down  into  the  valley. 

"A  great  justice  has  overtaken  them,"  he  said,  and  that 
was  all  he  told  her  about  the  cabin,  and  she  asked  him  no 
questions. 

At  the  edge  of  the  green  meadows  they  stopped  where  a 
trickle  of  water  from  the  mountain  tops  had  formed  a  deep 
pool.  David  followed  this  trickle  a  Uttle  up  the  couUe  it 
had  worn  in  the  course  of  ages,  found  a  sheltered  spot,  and 
stripped  himself.  To  the  waist  he  was  covered  with  the 
fitain  and  grime  of  battle.  In  the  open  pool  Marge  bathed 
her  face  and  arms,  and  then  sat  down  to  finish  her  toilet 
with  David's  comb  and  brush.  When  he  returned  to  her 
she  was  a  radiant  glory,  hidden  to  her  waist  in  the  gold  and 
brown  fires  of  her  disentangled  hair.  It  was  wonderful. 
He  stood  a  step  off  and  looked  at  her,  his  heart  filled  with  a 
wonderful  joy,  his  Hps  silent.    The  thought  surged  upon 


300     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

him  now  in  an  overmastering  moment  of  exultation  that 
she  belonged  to  him,  not  for  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  but  for 
all  time;  that  the  mountains  had  given  her  to  him;  that 
among  the  flowers  and  the  wild  things  that  "great,  good 
God,"  of  whom  Father  Roland  had  spoken  so  often,  had 
created  her  for  him;  and  that  she  had  been  waiting  for  him 
here,  pure  as  the  wild  violets  under  his  feet.  She  did  not 
see  him  for  a  space,  and  he  watched  her  as  she  ran  out  her 
glowing  tresses  under  the  strokes  of  his  brush. 

And  once — ages  ago  it  seemed  to  him  now — he  had 
thought  that  another  woman  was  beautiful,  and  that  an- 
other woman's  glory  was  her  hair!  He  felt  his  hetirt 
singing.  She  had  not  been  like  this.  No.  Worlds  sepa- 
rated those  two — ^that  woman  and  this  God-crowned  httle 
mountain  flower  who  had  come  into  his  heart  like  the 
breath  of  a  new  life,  opening  for  him  new  visions  that 
reached  even  beyond  the  blue  skies.  And  he  wondered 
that  she  should  love  him.  She  looked  up  suddenly  and 
saw  him  standing  there.  Love?  Had  he  in  all  his  life 
dreamed  of  the  look  that,  was  in  her  face  now.^  It  made 
his  heart  choke  him.  He  held  open  his  arms,  silently,  as 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  she  came  to  him  in  all  that  burn- 
ished glory  of  her  unbound  hair;  and  he  held  her  close  in 
his  arms,  Kissing  her  soft  Hps,  her  flushed  cheeks,  her  blue 
eyes,  the  warm  sweetness  of  her  hair.  And  her  Hps  kissed 
hvm.  He  looked  out  over  the  valley.  His  eyes  were  open 
to  its  beauty,  but  he  did  not  see;  a  vision  was  rising  before 
him,  and  his  soul  was  breathing  a  prayer  of  gratitude  to 
the  Missioner's  God,  to  the  God  of  the  totem-worshippers 
over  the  ranges,  to  the  God  of  all  things.  It  may  be  that 
the  Girl  sensed  his  voiceless  exaltation,  for  up  through  the 


THE  COURAGE  OP  MARGE  O^DOONE     301 

soft  billows  of  her  hair  that  lay  crumpled  on  his  breast  she 
whispered: 

"You  love  me  a  great  deal,  my  Sakewavdn  ?" 

"More  than  life,"  he  replied. 

Her  voice  roused  him.  For  a  few  moments  he  had  for- 
gotten the  cabin,  had  forgotten  that  Brokaw  and  Hauck 
had  existed,  and  that  they  were  now  dead.  He  held  her 
back  from  him,  looking  into  her  face  out  of  which  all  fear 
and  horror  had  gone  in  its  great  happiness;  a  face  filled 
with  the  joyous  colour  sent  surging  there  by  the  wild 
beating  of  her  heart,  eyes  confessing  their  adoration  with- 
out shame,  without  concealment,  without  a  droop  of  the 
long  lashes  behind  which  they  might  have  hidden.  It  was, 
wonderful,  that  love  shining  straight  out  of  their  blue,  mar- 
vellous depths! 

"We  must  go  now,"  he  said,  forcing  himself  to  break  the 
spell.  "  Two  have  escaped,  Marge.  It  is  possible,  if  there 
are  others  at  the  Nest    .     .     ." 

His  words  brought  her  back  to  the  thing  they  had  passed 
through.  She  glanced  in  a  startled  way  over  the  valley, 
then  shook  her  head. 

"There  are  two  others,"  she  said.  "But  they  will  not 
follow  us,  Sakewavdn.  If  they  should,  we  shall  be  over 
the  mountain." 

She  braided  her  hair  as  he  adjusted  his  pack.  His 
heart  was  Uke  a  boy's.  He  laughed  at  her  in  joyous  dis- 
approval. 

"I  like  to  see  it — ^unbound,"  he  said.  "It  is  beautiful. 
Glorious." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  blood  in  her  body  leaped 
into  her  face  at  his  words. 


302     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

"Then — ^I  will  leave  it  that  way,"  she  cried  softly^  luer 
words  trembling  with  happiness  and  her  fingers  workii^g 
swiftly  in  the  silken  plaits  of  her  braid.  Unconfined,  h<ir 
hair  shimmered  about  her  again.  And  then,  as  they  were 
about  to  set  off,  she  ran  up  to  him  with  a  little  cry,  and 
without  touching  him  with  her  hands  raised  her  face  to 
his. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  said.     "Kiss  me,  my  Sahewamn  /" 


It  was  noon  when  they  stood  under  the  topmost  cra/S'3 
of  the  southward  range,  and  under  them  they  saw  on-ce 
more  the  green  valley,  with  its  silvery  stream,  in  whi\?h 
they  had  met  that  first  day  beside  the  great  rock,  it 
seemed  to  them  both  a  long  time  ago,  and  the  vall^^y 
was  like  a  friend  smiling  up  at  them  its  welcome  and  'iis 
gladness  that  they  had  at  last  returned.  Its  drone  v>f 
running  waters,  the  whispering  music  of  the  air,  and  the 
piping  cries  of  the  marmots  sunning  themselves  far  belo\7, 
came  up  to  them  faintly  as  they  rested,  and  as  the  Girl 
sat  in  the  circle  of  David's  arm,  with  her  head  against  his 
breast,  she  pointed  off  through  the  blue  haze  miles  to  the 
eastward. 

"Are  we  going  that  way?"  she  asked. 

He  had  been  thinking  as  they  had  climbed  up  the  moun- 
tain. Off  there,  where  she  was  pointing,  were  his  friends, 
and  hers;  between  them  and  that  wandering  tribe  of  the 
totem  people  on  the  Kwadocha  there  were  no  human  beings. 
Nothing  but  the  unbroken  peace  of  the  mountains,  in 
which  they  were  safe.  He  had  ceased  to  fear  their  im- 
mensity— ^was  no  longer  disturbed  by  the  thought  that  in 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     303 

their  vast  and  trackless  solitude  he  might  lose  himself 
forever.  After  what  had  passed,  their  gleaming  peaks 
were  beckoning  to  him,  and  he  was  confident  that  he  could 
find  his  way  back  to  the  Finley  and  down  to  Hudson's 
Hope.  What  a  surprise  it  would  be  to  Father  Roland 
when  they  dropped  in  on  him  some  day,  he  and  Marge! 
His  heart  beat  excitedly  as  he  told  her  about  it,  described 
the  great  distance  they  must  travel,  and  what  a  wonderful 
journey  it  would  be,  with  that  glorious  country  at  the  end 
of  it  .  .  .  "We'll  find  your  mother,  then,"  he  whis- 
pered. They  talked  a  great  deal  about  her  mother  and 
Father  Roland  as  they  made  their  way  down  into  the 
valley,  and  whenever  they  stopped  to  rest  she  had  new 
questions  to  ask,  and  each  time  there  was  that  trembling 
doubt  in  her  voice.  "I  wonder  whether  it's  true**  And 
each  time  he  assured  her  that  it  was. 

"I  have  been  thinking  that  it  was  Nisikoos  who  sent 
to  her  that  picture  you  wanted  to  destroy,"  he  said  once. 
"Nisikoos  must  have  known." 

"Then  why  didn't  she  tell  me?"  she  flashed. 

"Because,  it  may  be  that  she  didn't  want  to  lose  you — 
and  that  she  didn't  send  the  picture  until  she  knew  that 
she  was  not  going  to  live  very  long." 

The  girl's  eyes  darkened,  and  then — slowly — there  came 
back  the  softer  glow  into  them. 

"I  loved — ^Nisikoos,"  she  said. 

It  was  sunset  when  they  began  making  their  first 
camp  in  a  cedar  thicket,  where  David  shot  a  porcupine  for 
Tara  and  Baree.  After  their  supper  they  sat  for  a  while 
in  the  glow  of  the  stars,  and  after  that  Marge  snuggled 
down  in  her  cedar  bed  and  went  to  sleep.    But  before  she 


304     THE  COUKAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

closed  her  eyes  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed 
him  good-night.  For  a  long  time  after  that  he  sat  awake, 
thinking  of  the  wonderful  dream  he  had  dreamed  all  his 
life,  and  which  at  last  had  come  true. 


Day  after  day  they  travelled  steadily  into  the  east  and 
south.  The  mountains  swallowed  them,  and  their  feet 
trod  the  grass  of  many  strange  valleys.  Strange — and  yet 
now  and  then  David  saw  something  he  had  seen  once 
before,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  not  lost  the  trail.  They 
travelled  slowly,  for  there  was  no  longer  need  of  haste; 
and  in  that  land  of  plenty  there  was  more  of  pleasure  than 
inconvenience  in  their  foraging  for  what  they  ate.  In  her 
haste  in  making  up  the  contents  of  the  pack  Marge  had 
seized  what  first  came  to  her  hands  in  the  way  of  provisions, 
and  fortunately  the  main  part  of  their  stock  was  a  20-pound 
sack  of  oatmeal.  Of  this  they  made  bannock  and  cakes. 
The  country  was  full  of  game.  In  the  valleys  the  black 
currants  and  wild  raspberries  were  ripening  lusciously, 
and  now  and  then  in  the  pools  of  the  lower  valleys  David 
would  shoot  fish.  Both  Tara  and  Baree  began  to  grow 
fat,  and  with  quiet  joy  David  noticed  that  each  day  added 
to  the  wonderful  beauty  and  happiness  in  the  GirFs  face, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  love  was  enveloping  him 
more  and  more,  and  there  never  was  a  moment  now  that 
he  could  not  see  the  glow  of  it  in  her  eyes.  It  thrilled  him 
that  she  did  not  want  him  out  of  her  presence  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  He  loved  to  fondle  her  hair, 
and  she  had  a  sweet  habit  of  running  her  fingers  through 
his  own,  and  telHng  him  each  time  how  she  loved  it  ^- 


THE  COURAGE  OF  IVIARGE  O'DOONE     305 

oftuse  it  was  a  little  gray;  and  she  had  a  still  sweeter  way 
of  holding  one  of  his  hands  in  hers  when  she  was  sitting 
beside  him,  and  pressing  it  now  and  then  to  her  soft  lips. 

They  had  been  ten  days  in  the  mountains  when,  one 
evening,  sitting  beside  him  in  this  way,  she  said,  with  that 
adorable  and  almost  childish  ingenuousness  which  he 
loved  in  her: 

"It  will  be  nice  to  have  Father  Roland  marry  us, 
Sakewavnn  I^'  And  before  he  could  answer,  she  added: 
**I  will  keep  house  for  you  two  at  the  Chateau." 

He  had  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  it. 

"But  if  your  mother  should  live  down  there — ^among  the 
cities?"  he  asked. 

She  shivered  a  Uttle,  and  nestled  to  him. 

"I  wouldn't  like  it,  Sakewawin — not  for  long.  I  love 
fhis — ^the  forest,  the  mountains,  the  skies."  And  then 
suddenly  she  caught  herself,  and  added  quickly:  "But 
anywhere — anywhere — ^if  you  are  there,  Sakewawin  1 " 

"I  too,  love  the  forests,  the  mountains,  and  the  skies," 
he  whispered.  "We  will  have  them  with  us  always,  Httle 
comrade." 

It  was  the  fourteenth  day  when  they  descended  the 
eastern  slopes  of  the  Divide,  and  he  knew  that  they  were 
not  far  from  the  Kwadocha  and  the  Finley.  Their  fif- 
teenth night  they  camped  where  he  and  the  Butterfly's 
lover  had  built  a  noonday  fire;  and  this  night,  though  it  was 
warm  and  glorious  with  a  full  moon,  the  Girl  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  desire  to  have  a  fire  of  their  own,  and  she 
helped  to  add  fuel  to  it  until  the  flames  leaped  high  up  into 
the  shadows  of  the  spruce,  and  drove  them  far  back  with 
its  heat.    David  was  content  to  sit  and  smoke  his  pipe 


306     THE  COUBAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

while  he  watched  her  flit  here  and  there  after  stiH  moie 
fuel,  now  a  shadow  in  the  darkness,  and  then  again  in 
the  full  fireglow.  After  a  time  she  grew  tired  and  nestled 
down  beside  him,  spreading  her  hair  over  his  breast  and 
about  his  face  in  the  way  she  knew  he  loved,  and  for  an 
hour  after  that  they  talked  in  whispering  voices  that 
trembled  with  their  happiness.  When  at  last  she  went  to 
bed,  and  fell  asleep,  he  walked  a  Uttle  way  out  into  the 
clear  moonlight  and  sat  down  to  smoke  and  listen  to  the 
murmur  of  the  valley,  his  heart  too  full  for  sleep.  Sud- 
denly he  was  startled  by  a  voice. 

"David!" 

He  sprang  up.  From  the  shadow  of  a  dwarf  spruce  half 
a  dozen  paces  from  him  had  stepped  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  stood  with  bared  head,  the  light  of  the  moon  streaming 
down  upon  him,  and  out  of  David's  breast  rose  a  strange 
cry,  as  if  it  were  a  spirit  he  saw,  and  not  a  man. 

"David!" 

"My  God— Father  Roland!" 

They  sprang  across  the  little  space  between  them,  and 
their  hands  clasped.  David  could  not  speak.  Before 
he  found  his  voice,  the  Missioner  was  saying: 

"I  saw  the  fire,  David,  and  I  stole  up  quietly  to  see  who 
it  was.  We  are  camped  down  there  not  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.     Come!    I  want  you  to  see     .     .     ." 

He  stopped.  He  was  excited.  And  to  David  his  face 
seemed  many  years  younger  there  in  the  moonlight,  and 
he  walked  with  the  spring  of  youth  as  he  caught  his  arm 
and  started  down  the  valley.  A  strange  force  held  David 
silent,  an  indefinable  feeling  that  something  tremendous 
and  unexpected  was  impending.     He  heard  the  othex's 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     307 

quick  breath,  caught  the  glow  in  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  was 
thrilled.  They  walked  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  to  him 
ojily  a  few  moments  when  they  came  to  a  little  clump  of 
low  trees,  and  into  these  Father  Roland  led  David  by  the 
hand,  treading  Hghtly  now. 

In  another  moment  they  stood  beside  someone  who  was 
sleeping.  Father  Roland  pointed  down,  and  spoke  no 
word. 

It  was  a  woman.  The  moonhght  fell  upon  her,  and 
shinunered  in  the  thick  masses  of  dark  hair  that  streamed 
about  her,  concealing  her  face.  David  choked.  It  was 
his  heart  in  his  throat.  He  bent  down.  Gently  he  lifted 
the  heavy  tresses,  and  stared  into  the  sleeping  face  that 
was  under  them — the  face  of  the  woman  he  had  met  that 
night  on  the  Transcontinental! 

Over  him  he  heard  a  gentle  whisper. 

"My  wife,  David!" 

He  staggered  back,  and  clutched  Father  Roland  by  the 
shoulders,  and  his  voice  was  almost  sobbing  in  its  excite- 
ment as  he  cried,  whispeidngly: 

"Then  you — ^you  are  Michael  O'Doone — ^the  father  of 
Marge — and  Tavish — ^Tavish     .     .     .'* 

His  voice  broke.  The  Missioner's  face  had  gone  white. 
They  went  back  into  the  moonlight  again,  so  that  they 
should  not  awaken  the  woman. 


Out  there,  so  close  that  they  seemed  to  be  in  each  other's 
arms,  the  stories  were  told,  David's  first — ^briefly,  swiftly; 
and  when  Michael  O'Doone  learned  that  his  daughter  was 
in  David's  camp,  he  bowed  his  face  in  his  hands  and 


$08     THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

David  heard  him  giving  thanks  to  his  God.  And  then  he, 
also,  told  what  had  happened — ^briefly,  too,  for  the  minutes 
of  this  night  were  too  precious  to  lose.  In  his  madness 
Tavish  had  believed  that  his  punishment  was  near — 
believed  that  the  chance  which  had  taken  him  so  near  to  the 
home  of  the  man  whose  life  he  had  destroyed  was  his  last 
great  warning,  and  before  kilHng  himself  he  had  written 
out  fully  his  confession  for  Michael  0*Doone,  and  had 
sworn  to  the  innocence  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  stolen 
away. 

*^And  even  as  he  was  destroying  himself,  God's  hand 
was  guiding  my  Margaret  to  me,"  explained  the  Mis- 
jsioner.  "All  those  years  she  had  been  seeking  for  me, 
and  at  last  she  learned  at  Nelson  House  about  Fathet 
Roland,  whose  real  name  no  man  knew.  And  at  almost 
that  same  time,  at  Le  Pas,  there  came  to  her  the  photo- 
graph you  found  on  the  train,  with  a  letter  saying  our 
little  girl  was  alive  at  this  place  you  call  the  Nest.  Hauck'a 
wife  sent  the  letter  and  picture  to  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  PoUce,  and  it  was  sent  from  inspector  to  in- 
spector, until  it  found  her  at  Le  Pas.  She  came  to  the 
Chateau.  We  were  gone — with  you.  She  followed,  and 
we  met  as  Metoosin  and  I  were  returning.  We  did  not  go 
back  to  the  Chateau.  We  turned  about  and  followed 
your  trail,  to  seek  our  daughter.    And  now    .     .     ." 

Out  of  the  shadow  of  the  trees  there  broke  upon  them 
suddenly  the  anxious  voice  of  the  woman. 

"Napao  !  where  are  you?" 

"Dear  God,  it  is  the  old,  sweet  name  she  called  me  so 
many  years  ago,"  whispered  Michael  O'Doone.  "She 
is  awake-    Comjel" 


THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE     300 

David  held  him  back  a  moment. 

"I  will  go  to  Marge,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  will  wake 
her.  And  you — bring  her  mother.  Understand,  dear 
Father?  Bring  her  up  there,  where  Marge  is  sleep-* 
ing    .     .     ." 

The  voice  came  again: 

**  Napoo — Napoo  /" 

"I  am  coming;  I  am  coming!"  cried  the  Missioner. 

He  turned  to  David. 

"Yes — I  will  bring  her — up  there — to  your  camp." 

And  as  David  hurried  away,  he  heard  the  sweet  voice 
«aying: 

"You  must  not  leave  me  alone,  Napao — ^never,  never, 
never,  so  long  as  we  live    .    .    ." 


On  his  knees,  beside  the  Girl,  David  waited  many  min- 
utes while  he  gained  his  breath.  With  his  two  hands  he 
crumpled  her  hair;  and  then,  after  a  httle,  he  kissed  her 
mouth,  and  then  her  eyes;  and  she  moved,  and  he  caught 
the  sleepy  whisper  of  his  name. 

"Wake,"  he  cried  softly.     "Wake,  Uttle  comrade!" 

Her  arms  rose  up  out  of  her  dream  of  him  and  encircled 
his  neck. 

"Sakewaioin,"  she  murmured.     "Is  it  morning?" 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms. 

"Yes,  a  glorious  day,  little  comrade.    Wake!" 


THE  END 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S. 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grossat  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 

KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  torn 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  "Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  his 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  '*  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woman. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Par  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventiu*e  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women, 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
from  this  book. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


ZANE  GREY^S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Brosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

DESERT  GOLD 

BETTY  ZANE 

LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  ' '  Buffalo  Bill  * '  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

May  be  had  wtiertver  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  firosset  &  Duwlap't  list 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan's  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter*  s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  **plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap- 
pear, Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series.  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car- 
ter and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNMP^  Pubushers,  NEW  YORK 


FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold]      Ask  for  Grosset  &  Duniap'riist 


THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  The  heroine,  beheving  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  io- 
teresting  developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        Nev7  York 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 


May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.    Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  scene  of  this  splendid  story  is  laid  in  India  and 
tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 

GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 

THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 


A  hero  who  worked  to  win   even  when  there  was  only 
a  hundredth  chance." 

THE  SWINDLER 


The    story  of   a    **bad  nian's*'    soul   revealed    by  a 
•Toman's  faith. 

THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 

THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.       The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest. 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        New  York 


ELEANOR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

May  tm  had  wlwvaf  booR»  art  sold.       Ask  for  Crotset  &  Duplap't  lirt. 

JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
fill  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 

OH,  MONEY  !   MONEY  ! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi- 
tions of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  $100,- 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum- 
mer on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  by 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people. 
Contains  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  and 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  V«uman  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won- 
derful talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character  drawing. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


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\'6i^ 


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